The Opera is over
by cmk1211
Summary: So what becomes of Erik after the curtain falls in POTO. He still has a plan, but it has nothing to do with love or music. His purpose is revenge. But the path will lead him to the destination he never knew his life was heading. But only if he can learn to let go of the phantom can there be hope for a future. Can a man consumed by anger and bitterness ever be free?
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1: The Escape February 6, 1871

Inky blackness surrounded him as the curtain fell across the hidden doorway, concealing it again from his pursuers. Like the phantom he was believed to be, he descended the narrow path quietly through winding tunnels; moving quickly and eagerly to outrun the hunters should they discover his escape route through the shattered mirror.

The phantom stopped only to collect one of the two satchels he had deposited along the passage. He looked at the other briefly, thinking of the feminine items he'd packed for her comfort while they traveled. Now there was no need so he left the small bag there in the darkness. Everything else would have to be abandoned. He knew that the authorities and theatre employees would be violating his lair at this very moment. All his possessions would be pilfered or destroyed. His precious compositions were all lost.

"I should have burned them." He whispered to himself as he maneuvered through the gloom, but there hadn't been time. Every note he had written for his muse was destined to be eradicated. There would be no final seduction and sweet surrender. Every effort would be made to wipe out even the memory of him, so that they all could forget the horror.

She would also want to forget, but she never would. Christine would always wonder in her deepest heart what life would have been like had she accepted her angel and run off with him. He would haunt her dreams forever, as she would his. Questions would never be answered, mysteries never revealed, and wonderment never satiated.

For the rest of them he would become a dark legend. It might have comforted him in a deviant kind of way, but instead regret filled him. The phantom knew now that there was no salvation for him, and this heinous face would never allow him any happiness. Often he wondered what crime he'd committed in his previous lives to warrant such a wretched existence, but it didn't matter anymore. He'd sinned enough in this life to justify all his misery.

The tempest of emotion within him was churning and driving him onward, and the only conscious thoughts he could focus on was "to run" and "to escape". It had been planned out carefully so that if and when the time came he could be far away from this place and this city as quickly as possible, although he had expected to have his new bride in tow.

After trekking in the pitch black for nearly an hour, feeling the way along the walls and counting turns, the phantom could hear the rush of water. He paused briefly to wrap the cloak around him and pull the hood over his head to conceal his face. He considered briefly pulling out the back up mask he had wrapped in velvet and placed in the bag, but the thought felt reprehensible to him.

For all his life keeping his face covered had been paramount to his identity even when he was alone. Now it seemed a fruitless endeavor. Whether he wore the mask or not, if he was found he would be ruthlessly dispatched. He contemplated for the first time that he'd worn the mask for his own benefit more than that of others. It was his way of hiding, but now there was no place in this Babylon where he could find refuge and no time to dwell on such thoughts.

The river and freedom were near, freedom from those seeking revenge for the atrocities he'd committed, but never from the demons and guilt that walked within him. The roar of crashing water was quickly approaching, and soon a shaft of light broke into the gloom to lead the way.

Beneath Paris the labyrinth of sewers and ancient catacombs all ended at one destination, the river Seine. During strong storms rainfall would wash away the excrement and flotsam from the city and direct it into the churning waters. Just as at this moment the water from the fire brigades was delivering bits of charred wood into the murky depths. Dreams and memories were being washed away. Some were sweet and others bitter, but all were painful.

The phantom emerged upon a short bank far to the south of the city. After walking a few feet he found the small boat deposited there, guarded by a dark figure that had hunkered down on the ground with a grimy cape tucked around him as protection from the chill air. Winter had been unwilling to relinquish its grip on the city and give way to an early spring, so the bracing cold crept under ones clothes and clung to the skin. He approached quietly, gaining a small amount of satisfaction as the startled figure leapt skyward when he announced himself.

"Any trouble?" asked the phantom. The unsettled man squinted up at the dark shadow that emerged from the smog before answering in a raspy voice, made heavy by ample amounts of gin.

"No sir, no one 'ere abouts at this late hour 'cept the rats and the puss' that chase'm." Unwilling to search for the face that had addressed him, the guard made his comments to the broken cobbles and mud between them. When the shadow moved forward, he immediately scrambled aside to make way. Soundlessly the phantom stepped onto the boat and pushed away from the landing with a long pole. Just when the guard realized he was being left without the agreed upon payment he meant to scream out, but the clatter of coins hitting the ground before him quickly redirected his attention. He did not watch while the small boat with its loathsome occupant disappeared down the fast moving river.

After having been roused from his drunkenness by his employer and having collected his final pay, the guard turned north and headed back into the city. He counted his money, hid it in his dingy pocket and made way up broken steps, emerging upon a boulevard. He was alarmed by the sudden acrid stench of burning wood and paint. The man raised his eyes to find its source and saw a large column of smoke rising from a bright flickering light amidst the buildings to his left. Feeling the sudden anxious drop of his stomach, the man hurried along the road and turning down the avenue found the source.

A great ball of fire blazed in the middle of the courtyard before him. None other than the grand Garnier, home to the Opera Populaire was being devoured by flames. Dozens of men from the fire brigade and militia were scurrying before it raising hoses from their trucks and launching buckets of water, fruitlessly trying to fight the blaze. Interspersed among those battling the inferno were well dressed and obviously frightened people. As he stumbled through the crowd the guard saw some of them injured with blood staining their fine clothes.

"These people must be trapped here, seeing as the stables and the lane where carriages would park are all to the rear and blocked by the fire." He muttered to himself as he moved through the mob to an alley on the other side. "Isn't this a god awful tragedy? Looks like I'm out of a job and a warm night's sleep."

Having lived and worked at the Opera Populaire carriage house for the last 24 years, the guard was left with nowhere to go given the current state of things. He continued to stumble forward through the dark lanes and alleys of the city until he came upon the light of an inn with open doors. It was as good as a sign from heaven to him, and he moved to enter the building's inviting warmth.

Inside he found a rather large group of people huddled within. As he made his way to a bar fitted along the back of the bottom floor he heard snippets of conversation. The lightened feeling he had achieved by the promise of a stiff drink, melted away as if caught by the same firestorm licking the stones of the theatre.

"It came right down on top of me and I barely made it over the chairs before….." said a woman

"…couldn't have pulled her with me, so I left her there. Oh my god, what if…" came from a man.

"Monster, that's what it was. The phantom finally got his due and the diva…" said another.

"…dead, and Piangi too. Miss Daae and the Viscount disappeared before the chandelier and the roof came down. Who knows…."

"The police are combing the streets looking for him, and if they find him or his accomplices they'll be dead by…"

"…there with guns, doors bolted, but he had a secret escape underneath the stage it seems…"

"If he's still in Paris, he won't be breathing for long, once the coppers get their hands on him."

"…out alone, must've had help. I'm sure the police will be investigating everyone…"

Having made it to the bar, the old man found himself even thirstier, but without the stomach for hanging around the inn.

He never paid much attention to the dealings of the theatre folk, and was content with the small stipend from the master who had departed this very night. A master, he just realized, he didn't even know his name. He'd never thought it important, as long as he was paid enough for food, drink, and even the company of a lady know and then. Than given lodging too boot. The guard never thought what the master did at the Opera, maybe an actor given his fancy clothes, fine boots and never wanting to be seen. Maybe even part of the management, although management didn't usually live in the Opera House.

"Perhaps he's with the band?" he thought out loud, but the more he considered it the more anxious he became. So much he practically had a fit when someone came up behind him, clasping him roughly on the shoulder and turning him round to face them. The drink he had somehow managed to order tumbled from his hand to clatter and spill to the floor.

"JULES, WHERE'VE YOU BEEN? Do you know what's happened?" said the young man now standing nose to nose with him. The old man was even more stunned to see that the man's jacket was covered in soot, and even singed in places. The old man swallowed hard into his dry throat as he stared back at the young lad who'd grabbed him.

"The Opera, it's been burned up Jerry." Jules stammered.

"Too right, they'll never get it good again. The phantom did it, just like he said he would." Jerry proceeded to give him a play by play account of the night's proceedings. "The inspectors are on the case though. They've found his lair beneath the building, deep down where there's a lake and tunnels an' everything. The police have ordered everyone working in the Opera rounded up and questioned, but I'm not going to take the fall for anyone. You know it's always us piss-on's that get strung up for these things. Me and a couple of the boys are skipping out now. You want in?" he rattled off.

It didn't take too much more to persuade Jules. He nodded quickly and followed the boy out into the street, barely keeping up as they made their way to the western edge of town nearest to the great cemetery. Soon they reached a shrouded place where 2 other men waited with horses. Jules immediately recognized Faust, the black gelding often used by his master and abandoned by him this night.

Jules hadn't ridden much, especially on such a fine animal. But with the others in such haste, he didn't hesitate to hoist himself clumsily onto the horses back. In minutes the four ex-employees of the Opera Populaire disappeared thru the west gate of Paris into the night without interruption. The soldiers normally there had been called to fight the fire, so the group slipped thru easily.

The lone man sat in the boat as it floated down the river, moving with the current fast enough that he didn't have to row, just steer and keep a watchful eye for obstructions and white water. It was a difficult task on the nearly moonless night, with only the stars to light his way, but he'd always been able to see in the darkness much better than the average man so he didn't fret about the situation.

The phantom couldn't allow himself to think, or he would go mad. There was a clash of emotions that collided with in him. Memories of all that had happened and visions of murdered dreams created a dance of images in his mind's eye. He saw Christine singing the music he'd written for her, Christine pulling the mask from his face and betraying him to the audience and authorities.

Going down, down into the depths of the theatre to his home. Christine with fear in her eyes, Christine with anger in her eyes, Christine with hate in her eyes, hating him and pleading for Raoul's life. He was so angry. There was no remorse, no compassion or guilt, just blind hate and contempt for everyone and everything. then she kissed him, a kiss whose power he could never have anticipated.

In the few seconds that their lips were connected the flood of a lifetime worth of longing, desire, passion, need and unrequited love had erupted inside him. Because it wasn't a kiss solely given out of desperation, in that moment she had truly accepted him and relinquished her fear. She loved Raoul, he knew. But she had also loved him, despite all he had done, for all the things he'd given her. The tenderness and ardor they'd shared in that kiss had overturned his soul and sent him careening. He'd expected her to fight and that he'd end up killing Raoul, thereby crushing her as she had destroyed him by her rejection. But the power of that one unforeseeable act had changed him, having both saved and damned him.

Most people could never understand what a simple gesture like a kiss meant to a creature such as him. It was like the first breath of a new born babe, music to the deaf, color to the blind, laughter to the mute. Christine had given all that in the same moment that he'd threatened to take it from her.

He thought back over their history together. How she'd come to him in a time when life was losing its value, and even his adored music held less and less of its illustrious appeal. They'd rescued each other through the loneliness of her father's death, and the despair of his seclusion. He'd guided her from the shy child singing hymns to heaven, to the burgeoning diva she'd become.

More than just teacher and pupil, they were intimate friends, sharing their dreams and fears. He'd poured into her all his illusions about life, spouting the high minded ideals of love, romance and desire that only someone long denied could transmute. When they'd sung together, they were singing to each other, and their energies would soar and merge into one beautiful being.

Long before she became the object of his desire, she was the center of his entire existence. They'd been everything to each other for years, until Raoul came to shatter their bond. His angel had rejected him, but in that moment when she embraced him, Christine had allowed their love to be a living, breathing thing between them. He decided then, though it cost him everything, that he would not let it die. He'd given her to Raoul and let them go. He could still see them disappear from under the cover of the candle light across the vast glassy lake. Though he would never see her again she would torment him, just as she did now, as long as he lived.

Over and over again images replayed in his mind. Reality and fantasy blended and he saw the impossible. Christine overcome from his music, Christine running to him, embracing him, yielding to him, loving him, in his arms. NO! It's not real, and won't ever be real. One kiss, his first, and his last. He looked out over the black water stretching out before him, the stench of filth and refuse from the city had faded and now the air was filled with a fresh crisp smell. For a moment as the breeze brushed his face, his mind calmed and he was filled with a deep all-encompassing sorrow.

A single tear pooled in the corners of his eyes and spilled first down the left side of his cheek, and then down his right, ruined cheek. He remembered then that there was no mask there to hide him, and indeed since he'd left behind the city wreck he'd allowed the hood of his cape to fall back. For the first time in as long as he could recall he wasn't alarmed nor did he move to correct the situation. The dark of the night was enough to hide him, and were he to pass any wayward soul he would surely appear human enough. What more could a monster such as he ask for.

The only sounds along the river were of moving water and the occasional splashing of a fish. The silence that once infuriated him now gave him solace, or perhaps it was hearing the world in a pure state and without the contamination of people. Even the constant hum of music was absent from him mind, leaving behind only a hollow vacuum where his soul had once been. Not even the echo of his cries could fill him for his weeping was silent. The tears fell steadily, but he did not sob or moan as he did when he was a child and held prisoner by the gypsies. They flowed independently, and he hoped that when they were done, they will have washed away all the sympathy that remained inside him.

The wounds he'd suffered this night might finally be enough to purge him of his humanity and crush the warped heart within him, a heart as twisted and mutilated as his horrid face. Perhaps he would rise up to meet the frothing water around him, and drown his spirit and body in a final contemptible act against god and nature. He'd sinned in every way available to him, except in carnal pleasures. And he could've sinned there too. The opportunity presented itself often enough, from the tender ballerina's who twittered about the opera house, innocent and unassuming that predators lurked all around them, to the actresses with their coarse behavior and scheming ways, who would have done anything for the time and attention he awarded to his protégé. The whore's who waited at the docks and brothels everywhere would not scoff at his face, if they even were to look him in the eye.

So many opportunities, but he never considered himself low enough to succumb. No, she would love him when she came to his bed. Willingly, aching with desire for him and only him, forever; what a romantic fool. Not an angel, but a monstrous demon dreaming of romance, beauty and love, pitiful. Well, he was no longer suffering from such illusions. But before he joined the damned under those icy waters he would complete his fall from grace and satisfy his lust for flesh and revenge. He wasn't just aimlessly fleeing into the night. He'd known and planned for many years that should his tenure at the Garnier theatre be forcibly and abruptly ended, he would at that time pursue the secrets of his past.

He'd collected all the intelligence that he could about the foundling that had been on display in the gypsy circus and how he'd come to be there. Now he would follow the trail to find those who had condemned him to the fate of a tortured and tormented freak. Once he was awash in their blood as his final sacrament, he would join them in eternal damnation. Even his own parents would suffer, if he were lucky enough to trace his life back to the source of the curse. It would begin with the Gypsies.

These nomads of Europe followed a migration trail across the continent, very much like the wild herds of deer that roam the land in search of plentiful food and shelter from winter cold. Every year they would make a journey from Romania, Bulgaria and Serbia through the south east border of Hungary and Austria and dispersing into Russia, Germany, Poland, Belgium, Switzerland, France, Italy and Spain to sell their wares, their entertainment, and their women. Gypsies, Romani, Ursari, they were known by different nom de plumes in every land. Heartless, guileless and cruel, these Ursari do not always follow the same routes. Indeed, although a gypsy troop always came to Paris during festivals and there are even those who live within the city and call it their home, those which had held him fled the city soon after his escape and have never returned.

From his inquiries he'd learnt that upon leaving Paris the caravan headed east to Zurich, into the wilds of Austria on a path that he believed led them to Budapest. He would now follow that trail, tracking their wanderings across Europe without rest until he found his mark. All his memories before his escape were of evil things, beatings and berating, a people whose tongues were as sharp as their whips. He would educate them on how their presence poisoned the world, and perhaps save another twisted creature.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2: The Quest February 6, 1871 – March 13, 1871

He'd recorded all the memories of his time with the gypsies in journals, and remembered all the places, names and faces that haunted his nightmares. His owner was dead, of that he was sure since he had been the one to dispatch him. Others he'd heard tell of over the years from the Truands, an underground network of criminals in Paris.

After his departure and his owner's death, there had been a dissension among the ranks until another leader had taken control. From there the troupe had fled into the wilds of Eurasia. As the years passed very little information could be found other than small references to tribal disputes. He'd kept record of every nugget of intelligence, and had even been able to formulate a trail of their movements across the continent. That was the course he would travel now.

The phantom could not move by daylight, or openly on the roads used by others. So he passed among the shadows and traversed the wilderness from village to village, sometimes on foot or borrowed horseback. He had committed to memory all the maps he collected over the years and plotted his journey southeast with careful precision. He'd also managed to establish a string of contacts and accounts from Paris to Hungary so that some of his journey would be in relative comfort, but there were several places where he would have to travel incognito.

The opera ghost was definitely skillful enough to keep his hideousness hidden. He carried two masks, but the stark white countenance of the porcelain one was a calling card of the freakish and would definitely draw attention. The other was light, made of soft beige leather in a manner that allowed it to mold and move with his skin to almost make him look normal from a distance or in low light.

Although there had been no direct interaction between him and those who lived in the theater, knowing they were there was comforting for him, and being able at any time to spy upon them gave him a certain kind of solace. The loneliness was almost bearable when he infiltrated their surreal world.

It had become his custom to listen to their conversations and observe their interactions like a play being performed. All their little dramas and comedies would play out for him like they would on stage, and he even had his favorite characters. Every stereotype was present among the rabble of players and he was never bored watching life unfold as a voyeur. Now he felt that lack with aching sharpness and a potent loneliness for not being able to join the performance. Now he was alone again, a pariah of the living world.

Longing for some form of human interaction, he would sometimes dare to enter the more disreputable looking inns, where lighting was very dim and no one would dare bother a solitary cloaked man with an air of menace. It was in one such auberge that he first heard a comment that made his blood boil. He'd been journeying for nearly a month, heading southeast through Europe. In a small town he'd found a small hovel offering respite for weary travelers.

The phantom settled himself nearest the rear door of the dive, which led to what he assumed was the kitchen. If trouble broke out he could retreat quickly out the back and not straight into the muddy street outside. The table at which he sat was no more than a broken plank of wood held aloft by the straightest branches that could be found and cut to be less than 4 feet from the ground.

When the waitress plopped down a mug of ale on the table it wobbled dangerously. He had no intention of drinking the swill, but intended to keep up appearances. Instead, he sipped brandy from a silver flask that was tucked just inside his waist coat. He did however condescend to eat the stew he'd been served, but had to fight the urge to vomit as its putrid flavor hit his tongue.

For someone accustomed to the luxury of dining on Paris fare this meager offering seemed like a means of torture, but such luxuries were now far behind him so for now it had to do. In the morning he would employ one of the street urchins, using both threats and the promise of payment, to collect supplies for his continuing journey.

While he tentatively fed himself, a pair of men entered the inn and loudly approached the man behind the makeshift bar.

"Eck. Every time we enter another chantey such as this, I feel that I need a scalding bath." said the younger man in French to the older who led the way.

The older man chuckled, and responded in a deep cracked voice. "You're just upset you've spent all your coin on whores in every brothel across France, and now that you're broke you have no entertainment."

"Maybe they'll serve me on credit on our journey back?" he shot back mockingly.

Even though partially hidden under their travel cloaks, the phantom recognized the color and style of the uniforms worn by the Paris gendarmes. He moved slowly to pull the hood of his cloak further over his face and mentally began calculating on the best way to exit the small room. When he was trying to decide whether to casually stand up and leave or trying slinking out the back door, he found his attention drawn to the officers and their conversation.

"Here, old man." Called out the youth to the barman "We want to speak to you."

"Ain't nothin' free 'ere monsieur." He replied, but was quickly relieved to hear the clunk of coins on the counter. "Ah, how can I help you gentleman?"

"We are hunting a monster and murderer; a demon with a horribly deformed face, a pale corpse like figure, stringy hair and carrying the stench of death. He may also be hunchbacked and scrambles about with a limp." said the older officer.

The phantom nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity of this description. A demon he may be, but from their list of attributes he'd stepped out of a book. Next they'll say he was seen swinging from the pulpits of Notre Dame herself. He kept his eyes averted as he listened intently to the discussion.

"Huh, we 'aven't had anybody like that round 'ere. I'd string him up me self if I saw the likes of that." replied the barkeep. The younger officer sighed heavily.

"As it has been in every town we've been to. Well, at least this will be the last and we don't have to search all of Austria. If he is still alive, it's not our problem anymore. Do you offer lodging monsieur?" The barman nodded and once payment was arranged, he led the two customers up the creaky stairs.

The group passed directly in front of his table as they made their way, and the younger of the officers looked directly at the phantom but didn't recognize him. He almost chuckled at their audacity and ignorance. Soon the gendarmes would be asleep in their pest infested beds. He considered quite seriously slipping into their rooms and using the Punjab lasso he had readily accessible to quiet this threat, but in the end he decided against it. Killing them would certainly alert others to his whereabouts. If he was careful enough he could avoid them and their comrades in the future.

The phantom took this opportunity to quietly exit the inn and disappear into the evening mist. There was a farm just beyond the borders of the village where he planned to spend the rest of the night. It had a large barn with a hayloft that would hide him for the rest of the night and the following day.

As he settled himself into the darkness and closed his eyes, he wondered how many had been sent to hunt him. He believed that although the standard authorities would not pursue him this far, bounty hunters may have been engaged to search farther for him; perhaps hired by the managers or even the Viscount himself. He grimaced inwardly at the thought. That bastard Raoul had already won from him that which he never even possessed, and for her sake he'd even abandoned the only home he'd ever known. He conceded to himself that it didn't really matter, once he'd completed his quest for justice there would be nothing left for anyone to find or persecute.

The next day he left the hayloft during early twilight, collecting a few supplies from the farms storehouse before disappearing into the wilderness once again. He left behind a small stack of French embossed gold coins as payment for what he took, laughing inwardly at how a monster such as himself still held on to such meaningless morality. He continued to travel under the cover of darkness, keeping of the main roads. It made his progress slow, but he didn't deviate from his chosen course.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3 Face to face with the same old villainy March 13, 1871- March 20, 1871

Whether it took months or years didn't matter, the hunt was his new obsession. He often came very close to caravans camping along the highway. He'd watch and listen from the veil of night, remembering the quick language of the gypsies that still filled his nightmares. Each troupe seemed to have its own society, differing sometimes in its wickedness. The phantom was able to dismiss these groups from the one he tracked.

One day during the middle of March he came upon a fair that had been erected in a field a few hundred feet from the city of Hallein. He hid himself among the brambles of a thicket until night descended. Once the sun had set and the torches were lit he joined the group of onlookers filing thru a row of tents, arching their necks to see a successive row of freaks.

Some of those on display sat comfortably on dirty couches that were touted about and set up for a gothic effect. There were all the oddities one expected to see. The bearded woman, a shaven man tattooed from head to toe, a small girl labeled a living mermaid, and a set of conjoined twins. Interspersed among the oddities were a sword swallower, fire eater, and the standard contortionist.

Lying suggestively on a Persian rug was a woman with only one arm and leg. He noted queasily that the scarring on the nubs of her missing appendages suggested that they had been lopped off. Two painted midgets led the tour, spinning tails of magic and woe about each exhibit.

A man who must have weighed in excess of 700 lbs. had been carted out and set at the center of the caravan as the Piece De Resistance. The phantom gazed upon this man with pity. The barkers had adorned him with pieces of bread and meat on his folds of flesh, and the man greedily grabbed each piece shoving them in his mouth. He had the glazed eyes of an animal, long used to the abuse of its captures and sickeningly grateful for the opportunity to please. He knew that look personally, having worn it for many years. The man was a prisoner of not just the gypsies, but of his own body, and the only salvation he might ever find would be in the welcome arms of death.

The phantom lingered in the shadows outside the ring of wagons afterwards. When the tours were done, the crowd dispersed, and the Ursari had begun drinking themselves into a stupor, he steeled himself under the flaps of the tent that had been put in place around the large man. There was a stench of funk all around, and the only sound was the gurgling breath of the freak. He seemed to be sleeping, but as the phantom approached he opened his eyes wide.

"Who's there?" he asked.

"An angel; the angel of death." came a response from the shadows.

"Have you come to kill me?" he questioned excitedly.

"Do you wish for death?"

The man was silent for a moment before answering. "Yes….please."

"Then here, one last drink and you can fall into my arms forever." The phantom placed a vial into the fat man's hand. It held enough poison to kill half the encampment with its potency, but the phantom wasn't sure how much it would take to affect the large man. The fafreak looked at the glint on the small glass container only a moment before clumsily removing the stopper and pouring the contents down his throat with delectation.

"Will there be pain?" he inquired.

"Only an end to the pain; before you go, tell me your name."

"Giancarlo Maniverti." He said proudly. "I was not always as you see here. I was once a beautiful man, powerful and loved by women." He lied, but the phantom wasn't going to call him out on it.

"Of course, and you will be again. Be at peace Giancarlo."

"Thank you my friend." It took only a few more seconds for the fat man to close his eyes and the empty vial fell from his hands and disappeared in his folds of flesh. There was no sound of breath or life from him. The silence in the tent was restful as the angel withdrew into the night.

He was making his way back to the forests edge when he heard a squeal from a nearby thicket a few yards from the caravan, then a piteous whimper, and muffled sobbing amidst the ugly grunting of a man. The phantom's first instinct was to ignore the telltale signs of a rape in progress, but a fever of fury began to build in his gut. He turned towards the noises and soon came upon a man holding a young girl face down into the brush.

Her skirts had been ripped and her blood smeared bloomers had been tossed to the side. Not thinking of the outcome, the Phantom leaped forward brandishing the Punjab lasso and caught the man around the neck. He hoisted him off of the squirming child who immediately scrambled away. Seeing that she couldn't be more than 13 years old enraged him even further and he tightened his grip, hoping to snap the man's neck at any moment. But the young girl called out through her racking sobs.

"No, he's drunk. He's my papa. He's not bad, just when he's drunk." The phantom was disgusted. Was she actually pleading for the life of this fiend, and he was her father as well? He released the man who fell straight to the ground gasping loudly. He was trying to speak, but the lasso had nearly crushed his windpipe and inhalation was a struggle.

"Your daughter has saved your life monsieur, but you will not live if you do this again. Here is something to remind you that lasciviousness and incest are unforgiveable sins." The phantom unsheathed his sword and with one quick swipe separated the four fingers of the man's right hand just below the knuckles. The child screamed, but did not run to the aid of her father. She only remained sitting on the ground staring at the blood pouring from her father's hand. The man rolled onto his back, grimacing at the pain of his dismemberment.

"Your word monsieur?" he demanded. The man managed to nod his head vigorously. He addressed the girl one last time "You might want to cauterize that before he bleeds to death." She nodded as well and the phantom disappeared into the night.

He expected to be pursued so he ran for as long and as far as he could until daybreak. He found a collection of boulders and was able to secure himself among them to rest and hide for the day. No sounds of hunters reached his ears and he managed a few hours of uncomfortable sleep until night once again descended.

When he emerged from the rubble, he resumed his journey and never heard anything more of those encounters. He though often of Giancarlo, and in the fertile ground of his imagination he created for him a world where he was the powerful lover of women he'd boasted once being. He pictured them together, two arrogant and heroic musketeers parading about the countryside saving villages and melting the resolve of grateful damsels. The fantasy kept him company for many long nights, but the events had also strengthened his resolve to revenge himself on the gypsies who'd imprisoned him.

The poison he'd given the fat man had been intended for the Ursari he hunted. If he poisoned their water supply or wine, he could be done with the lot of them in one quick act. Any stragglers would be dispatched by his sword or pistol. Then he could join them with that same toxin, or maybe he'd acquire something special to kill himself. Either way he needed to find an apothecary to restore his supply before that fateful day.


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry for the delay. I was very sick.

CHAPTER 4: The long road of reminiscence March 20, 1871- March 27, 1871

The days seemed to meld into one long blur. The phantom had to take special care to record each one as they passed and correlate his progress along his mental maps. Because the Romani were a nomadic people he had to take into account the season and time of year to predict where and when he could find them. If his calculations were correct, he would find them early summer just beyond the Northern Limestone Alps.

It was imperative he locate them before they crossed through the Dachstein range, or he might lose them as they dispersed into Germany. He had no intelligence of where they would go as they headed north, but had several accounts of them passing through the mountains via the Dachsteingebirge road. It would be a difficult journey through a wilderness he'd never experienced before. Daunting, but his commitment and obsession would not be deterred.

During his enslavement life was lived behind the bars of a small cell in the back of a wagon or the cage from which he was presented to entertain the hungry eyes of paying customers. They were always traveling, and he thought now of the places he'd only glimpsed from a smeared window.

The one freedom he had unencumbered was the ability to listen. No one ever talked directly to him except when he was being moved or abused. His owner Boldo even thought for a long time that he'd been born dumb as well as deformed. But the child listened intently and in time he had a rudimentary understanding of the Romani language. He even picked up German, French and English to represent the lands through which they bartered.

From as far back as the opera ghost could remember, he'd been treated no better than a beast by the gypsies. Beatings were routine at the start and end of every day, as well as whenever his owner was drunk or in a foul mood.

In the middle of one particularly horrendous whipping the boy had started begging for his owner to stop, and Boldo did for a few seconds while he stood amazed that the demon child could speak. In the end the lashing might have been lessoned had he kept quiet. His mind and body would forever wear the marks of those abuses. Ironically the only part of him his handler had avoided marking was his face, as if it would take something away from his hideousness and make him less profitable.

During his beatings his owner would often rant and rave to him of how his mother had wept at having spawned such a monster in payment for her sins, and how she'd been repulsed by him. He'd say that the only way his mother could stomach feeding him was to cover his face.

One day he'd been loaded onto a small boat, terrified, wailing and throwing his body against the bars. He'd been beaten into submission and nearly unconscious at the start of the crossing. For 3 days he was constantly sick as they traveled, finally arriving on a beach that stretched endlessly to a land he was later told was Persia. He and the other oddities and freaks of the circus were presented as entertainment to the court of a shah. It was here where one of the most amazing things of his life had happened.

There was a man among the Persians who was called the Daroga. He'd taken an interest in the Devil's child. Behind the soiled sack the boy had worn as a mask he saw the eyes of a bright and tenacious child. He'd requested a private demonstration, and although his owner had been initially hesitant, when he was paid a large purse of gold coins he quickly consented.

The boy was roughly bathed for the first time in his life, and his pale skin continued to sting for many days after. Though he acted like he was touching a leper, Boldo would let no other touch him. The man cursed, beat and berated the child as he scrubbed his skin raw and the water of the small tub went black.

It was here where he learned he'd had a name. The Daroga had insisted on knowing his name before paying the gypsy, and for the first time he heard it uttered. He was brought to the lavish home of the Daroga and introduced as Erik Destler. For the first time in his life someone talked to him and treated him like a human being, even though he'd remained shackled.

He'd not been allowed to wear the mask/sack and screamed when it had been taken. By this time it was a source of comfort and represented a place inside himself where he could hide from cruelty. But after a sharp whack on the back of the head that left him dizzy, he'd accepted his embarrassment. In time, although it made feel constantly nervous and anxious, he relished breathing the air without it.

The Daroga had a very young son, Reza, whose face shown with curiosity instead of fear when he saw Erik. Reza was very young and would approach Erik without hesitation, making his heart swell in a way he'd never experienced. Even the youngest of the Ursari never regarded him with anything more than contempt.

From that moment on he spent many hours in their company and was even schooled by the Daroga for a time. He learned to read and write, and was taught arithmetic, architecture and geography. But his greatest talent they found was for music.

He'd not been allowed to touch the imported harpsichord in the Daroga's home, but he'd been hypnotized by its haunting notes and would hear its dulcet tones in his dreams. He would beg incessantly to see the music sheets and would try his hardest to commit them to memory.

All this unconventional tutoring was kept hidden from Boldo, who never really cared what they did with Erik so long as he was paid and the boy was returned, but had he known he probably would have put an end to it. It was the most marvelous time for Erik and for the first time in his short life he began to hope that his destiny would not be to live forever and die a slave. But as was usually the case, in time the gypsies wore out their welcome and had to bid a hasty retreat.

That was the last time he'd ever heard his name as well. He kept it close to his heart after that like a guarded secret and often wondered from where it had come. He couldn't fathom that the gypsies had given it to them, because in their eyes he wasn't a person and not worthy.

The power of his sorrow was so potent that the discomfort of traveling back to Europe on the boat went unnoticed. Through his grief he first came to the realization that if he had the chance he would free himself. It was a year later when they entered the gates of Paris and his life would take the most drastic turn it ever had.

Tents had been erected in a part of the city that he could not identify, but he could remember the stench of decay in the air. A thin layer of dirty straw had been strewn on the ground of the cage where he'd been kept. He'd been hastily tied to the bars with rope as his owner rushed to sells tickets to see the Devils Child.

A sea of laughing, taunting and jeering faces paraded themselves around him. A variety and wealth of people he'd never seen, and they began to toss coins into his pen as they departed. His owner, flush with greed, rushed in after the tent was empty and carelessly left the cell door open as he rummaged through the straw collecting his earnings.

Erik had managed to untie his bonds and in a moment of inspiration seized the opportunity. With a level of strength he'd never thought he possessed and calling upon all the hate he'd ever felt, he wrapped the rope around the distracted man's fat neck and garroted him. He'd never felt so elated and satisfied in his life, but it didn't last long before panic struck. Beyond the open gate of his cage stood a young girl, staring at what he'd done. Erik expected her to scream, but to his utter surprise she called to him.

"Come boy, you can't stay here. They'll kill you when they know what you've done." She pulled him from the tent and together they ran off into the night.

He couldn't see clearly through the holes of his sack and didn't know where they were going, nor did he care. All he knew was that the horror was over, so he stumbled along as she led him through dark streets.

Behind them the noise began, screams and shouts of murder and the sudden rush of many men running. In time they came to a wall at the bottom of which a grate had been affixed over a small opening. The girl pulled the bars open and pushed him in. He instantly felt trapped and almost turned to fight his way out when he realized that he'd been put into a long tunnel for which he saw no end.

"Go boy, I will find you inside!" she commanded before slamming the grate and running off into the darkness.

Without looking back he began to follow the narrow passage until he reached the grated opening to a small room. She was there waiting for him, and taking his hand led him in through to a set of stairs and down a long spiral walkway. She had collected a small torch and held it aloft as they marched on and on for what seemed like an eternity. After a while the wooden walls of the opera cellars became the rough, threatening rock of the broken earth. When she finally stopped and turned to him he was gripped by a kind of fear he'd never known, looking around him to see a wide cavern and in front of him a far expanse of clear water.

"You must stay here for now. I will return shortly with food and supplies. My name is Antoinette Giry, what's yours?" he didn't answer and only stared up at her.

She was older than him, but by how many years he couldn't say since he didn't know his own age, but her eyes were kind and shown with concern. Gently she guided him down to sit on the cold stone floor, and she placed the lit torch in his hands. From he didn't know where she produced a small candle and lit it from the flame.

"Stay right here and I'll be back as soon as I can." When she rose to leave, Erik let out a shriek that echoed in the expanse so loudly he shrank back terrified. She came back to him and took his hand, trying her best to look deeply into his eyes. She brought his dirty hand to her heart and spoke reassuringly to him. Though she'd touched him during the escape, this little bit of tender contact made Erik freeze like a statue. The softness of her linen dress was so alien that the boy imagined it felt the way clouds would.

"You must trust me; I won't let them hurt you anymore. I'm going to take care of everything." She then trotted off back the way they'd come cradling the candle in her hand to protect the flame. He lay down on the ground and wept as quietly as he could, fearing the reverberation of sound, until he was nearly in a catatonic state. He knew nothing else until he heard the soft footfalls of the girls approach. She appeared laden with a heavy sack over one should and a lamp in the other hand. She settled down in front of him, dropped her burden and shook his shoulder gently.

"Get up. I've brought you lots of good things." Excitedly, she proceeded to remove objects from the bag and give him a rundown of its contents. "I've brought you some clothes, a coat and shoes. They'll be too big but you'll grow into them. Here is a pillow I embroidered myself, so I hope you don't mind the flowers. Here are some candles, some wood for a fire, a cup, some paper, a pencil, a book… can you read?" she paused abruptly to ask him and he nodded faintly. "Humph, good, you didn't seem like a simpleton to me. Here are 2 blankets, a hat, it's called a fedora and very fashionable. Here is a pocket watch and a music box, they were my father's. One more thing." This time when she reached into the almost empty bag she did so slowly and withdrew something that sparkled in the flickering flame of the torch.

"This is a mask for your face. It will be much more comfortable than that bag. It's one of my favorites because of the gold glitter. It's just shiny foil paper, but it's very lovely. They have the most splendid parties in the opera house and my favorite every year is the masquerade ball. All the ladies are so elegant and beautiful and everyone gets to wear one of these. I've never been, but I will one day when I'm the prima ballerina. Here, you put it on like this. There is this ribbon to tie it on."

She demonstrated its placement before handing it to him. He reached out to accept it, but it took a moment for him to realize he would have to remove the sack to try it on. Erik's heart began to beat against his ribs and even with the chill underground air he began to sweat.

"It's alright, I've seen your face before remember, up top at the carnival." She gave him a small reassuring smile. With trembling fingers he reached up and lifted the veil. She may have seen his face through his bars in the dim light of torches, but she was unprepared for seeing it only a few feet in front of her. She gasped loudly clasping her hand in front of her gaping mouth, and he instantly let the sack fall back into place.

Tears poured from his eyes and for the first time he felt real shame. The truth was that the child didn't know why people recoiled from his face, because he'd never seen it himself. There were never any mirrors available to him and reflective surfaces never gave enough of a reflection for him to recognize. Nevertheless, he'd always accepted the way he looked, believing he was something different and alien from everyone around him. Even with all he'd endured and suffered he'd never hated himself as much as he did in that moment and he wished that she'd never found him.

Antoinette tried to recover quickly, but the damage had been done. He would never reveal himself to her or anyone else willingly looked back to the pile of artifacts now between them and gathered the firewood to arrange the necessary pieces into a small pile. Collecting the still burning torch he'd laid on the ground she placed it among the pile, and in a few minutes it was all burning brightly filling more of the dark space with ambient light.

She returned to her place across from him, reached into the sack one more time and produced a smaller bundle. She laid it down and unwrapped to reveal a canteen of water, half a loaf of bread, a slice of cheese, part of a sausage roll, grapes, and an apple. Erik whimpered loudly, it was the closest thing to a feast he'd ever beheld. Even in the home of the Daroga he'd only been given small bits of food, but it had been plenty to fill his small stomach. Now gazing upon this bounty he felt empty enough to eat half the city, but he hesitated before reaching out to what was offered.

In his mind he expected a reprimand in the form of a fist or other implement of torture, but instead he received a smile and encouraging nod from Antoinette and in short order he'd eaten until he couldn't chew anymore. Sated with food and comfort from the spreading warmth of the fire his eyes started to drift close on their collected the empty bag and stood.

"You should sleep now. I'll be back tomorrow after classes." The last thing he saw was the flurry of her skirt as she disappeared back down the tunnel.

It was the first night of the next 23 years of his life that he would spend living in the bowels of the Garnier Opera house. Antoinette gave him all that she could, but he spoke very rarely to her and in time she became fearful of him. By then he'd become remarkably self-sufficient.

There was almost nothing that he desired that he couldn't take from the Opera house, and once he'd been brave enough to explore and learn all the hidden paths of its structure there was no place he couldn't access undiscovered. And although he loved the ethereal and safe darkness of his underground lair, now and then he would sit upon the roof to watch the rising and setting of the sun. He'd watch the multitudes of people mulling about their tedious lives, as well as the lines of finely dressed and adorned theatre goers. But the biggest pleasure of all was the music.

Erik didn't miss a performance or rehearsal, becoming intoxicated with every aspect of a production. He would listen to the maestro conduct and instruct his players, and through his observations he learned the proper way to play every instrument. He then began to collect them and practice until he found himself expert on every one. Books were the first treasures he began to accumulate, and from these he learned all sorts of skills and mastered many crafts. Left to his own accord there was no one to stem his appetite to learn, build and experiment.

The one thing he could not collect for his lair was a piano, but after several years of trial and error he succeeded in building a grand harpsichord into the very rock wall of his underground world and it was kept tuned to perfection. He would spend hours plying away at it, and when he felt himself adept enough he began writing his own music. It filled his days and nights, but even music could not fill the void of loneliness and his compositions reflected the longing of his soul for love and acceptance. So he relied more and more on the only connection he had with humanity. In each opera he witnessed he learned the heights and parodies of all kinds of love. It wasn't the ideal education for a young man on the nature of love, but it bred in him a sense of romance and drama that fueled the fury of his composing.

He had very few interactions with people and was careful that those encounters were always on his terms. There had been a man working in the opera house, and although he never learned all his history he felt a kindred spirit with him. Due to a large scar that ran across the man's face, blinding his left eye to one white orb, the man kept very much to himself and could always be found working alone. One dark night when the players were passed out drunk and all the ballerinas were tucked away for the night, he'd approached the man as he worked repairing set pieces. The man wasn't even startled when he'd stepped boldly from the shadows, wearing one of the first incarnations of his ghostly mask.

"You must be the rat I always hear scurrying about, well I've got no cheese for you so scurry back off." His voice was gruff and raw, but held no malice or ill will. Erik had engaged the man in all manner of conversation that night and many nights since, and the man whose name was John answered and spoke freely to him. One night to his surprise, after a not so on par performance of "Pirates of Penzance", he'd asked the boy if he'd ever learned to fence and fight. Erik nearly exploded at the concept and John then proceeded to teach him.

Over the next 3 years, while the Opera house slept, John schooled him and taught him many of the skills that sustained Erik later on. It was quite a tragedy for him when he'd learned John had been found dead in a prostitute's bed, poisoned. John was one of the few people in his life for which he had grieved. Otherwise, he was always alone.

Whenever his loneliness was too much to be tempered by music or some other obsession he would go up and watch the chatter, comings and goings of the theatre folk from the shadows. Sometimes he would see Antoinette, and showing that she had some sense of him she always seemed to know when he was watching. Antoinette never married, but after a short absence returned to the Garnier with a daughter named Meg. She'd never become the prima ballerina she'd hoped to and had a tragic romance with a man who'd come from abroad to perform on the stage.

In time he began looking at the women with more longing than that for companionship. He'd watch the ballerinas and found himself more than once indulging in those sinful pleasures men do when they are alone, but it brought only momentary gratification. The only thing that brought him a real measure of satisfaction was composing his music and hearing it played on his harpsichord. He knew how women above all others found his face abhorrent, and considered in not worth the humiliation to risk their rejection. So he considered himself as celibate as a priest, and his god was music.

Until one night, while wondering the empty corridors of the Opera house he heard a small melodious sound. The room through which he'd first come to the Garnier had some years ago been converted into a small chapel, and there he found a pious young girl singing to the candle she'd lit for her father. For many days he listened to her, and soon he was enraptured.

Whether she was singing gentle hymns or praying to her father's angel, he found her voice to be the most exquisite sound on earth. The emotion made visible from every note made the heart tremble. Via his expertise he surmised that she had the most potential he'd ever seen to become the greatest soprano to have lived, and even more, to be worthy of performing his own work.

Encouraging her through whispers, tutoring her from hidden places when she was alone, or singing to her through the wall as she slept in her dormitory, he infected her with his presence. To her he became an angel of music, the manifestation of her dead father come to comfort her heart, raise her spirit, and galvanize her soul. He soothed her tears and she eased the loneliness of his life.

As the years past, he molded her voice and urged her talent, while nature did the same for her body. Soon she blossomed into a beautiful young woman. In one brutal moment he found that he desired her above all else on this earth, and so began his downfall. In the end his horrid face and the evil of his nature had destroyed their love, and he'd nearly destroyed them both. Now it was to him the biggest regret of his life.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5: Finding a passage through salvation March 27, 1871 -

March was coming to a sodden close when the phantom reached the outskirts of a small provincial town called Hallstatt, nestled at the foot of the Northern Limestone Mountains and the last waypoint before the Dachstein Mountain pass.

It was a well-kept farming community, and whether by day or night a steady stream of travelers were arriving and departing. Erik found it easier to merge with the passing throng as he entered the town under the veil of dusk, but after going through the front gate he slipped down a small alley into a slightly more derelict district that was only slightly less crowded.

It was near midnight and most doors were closed, but there was one establishment where patrons were coming and going with frequency. From the banner hanging from the door, it was easy to determine the place as a brothel.

Although he wasn't looking for that kind of entertainment, he did need information for the next leg of his journey. He passed casually into the hostel, and finding a suitable corner in which to situate himself, settled back to conduct his reconnaissance.

The fire from the hearth, candles and sconces had been lowered to a subdued glow, allowing a level of discretion for the myriad of acts being played out everywhere. Some, like Erik, sat alone. Others sat and talked with a brightly painted dove.

The prostitutes were successfully feigning interest, and the phantom felt an inward stab of guilt and resentment as he observed them. Several had already approached him, but he had declined their services while he simply took in the sights of depravity.

In time most of brothels occupants either left or disappeared up the stairs. Knowing that his opportunity to gather information was at hand, Erik caught the attention of a petite blonde walking by and arranged for a private audience.

When he was led away down a short hallway to a dimly lit room, the thought briefly crossed his mind to do exactly what was expected of him, but as always it brought about a strong distaste. He didn't remove his cloak, or allow his face to be seen except for a portion of his mouth and the left unmarked side of his cheek. He simply sat at a small armchair and instructed the young woman to sit. She did so expectantly, no doubt hoping that this financial interlude would be short.

"Has business been good?" he asked mockingly.

"Good enough sir." She responded nonplussed. "There are lots of gents passing through town right now, with the weather so nice, and they have money enough to pay for my services."

"I'm pleased for you, but I want something else from you," She raised her eyebrows questioningly. "information." He made sure to make his voice musical and as pleasant as possible to help dissolve her suspicion and disdain. She relaxed instantly; it obviously wasn't an uncommon request.

"Well then, I'm happy to oblige as long as you understand the price is the same?" She stated in her most businesslike manner.

"Agreed." He replied, giving her a small grin that she may not have even seen.

"So what will it be, politics, religion, music. I can't say I'm any kind of expert, but I'll do my best." She asked glumly, already bored.

"How long have you lived in this town?" he asked, she tilted her head accusingly.

"Why?" was her immediate come back. Apparently information usually didn't involve personal inquiries. Erik didn't answer. He was the one paying for her services, not the other way around. After a moment she relented. "All my life, sir."

"Are you familiar with the area?"

"Fairly, but I'm not that kind of guide." She stated with obvious mockery.

"And where can one go to speak with a guide?"

"There's plenty of them waiting in the thoroughfare every morning offering their services." She said. Erik's temper bubbled just below the surface, but he would not let her world weary air of disdain lead him to do something rash.

"No, I don't wish to hire one of those. I only wish to discuss the best way to cross the mountains aside from the main road, through the wilderness." He stated slowly, so that she couldn't mistake his meaning. She may be young and in a low profession, but this tart wasn't as dull-witted as most. She seemed perceptive enough to comprehend his request.

"Well then, you'll probably want to speak with old Mici. He's crazy, but so are you if you're trying to travel the mountains alone and away from the road." She stated sarcastically.

"Where can I find old Mici?" after a moment's hesitation she gave him directions and he dismissed her. He'd paid enough for her time and the use of the room till day break, but knowing that it was common practice to rob men as they slept he opted for slipping out the way he'd came. On the way out he saw many such unfortunate individuals in the process of being lightened of whatever wealth they carried.

Outside the night was waning fast, but Erik still could not take respite. The city was more of a dangerous place for someone like him than for most. Keeping to the shadows he made his way through the cobbled streets until he found the place the prostitute had directed him to.

Being very aware that this might be a trap readily set up by the wench, Erik patrolled the area around the building supposed to be old Mici's home. Only when he was satisfied did he approach what was nothing more than a hovel built into an alleyway between two larger buildings. From what he could see there was only one way in and out.

The phantom didn't like the odds of getting out of such a small space unhindered, but with each passing minute his list of options grew thin. As he came closer to the opening that was barely covered with some old tarp, a smell of sickness and alcohol welcomed him.

He pushed the tarp aside and allowed the stale air from inside to pass by him before he peered inside. The space was even smaller than it had seemed from outside. It was only wide enough for a grown man to lie across and twice that deep before it ended at a wall.

There upon a small cot lay an old man muttering to himself. He didn't stir as the phantom entered the room. Erik looked around and was surprised to see a myriad of strange objects. Books and periodicals were stacked all about the area, along with rolled parchments.

Interspersed among the stacks were various artifacts that ranged from fine looking candelabra to foul looking jars with questionable contents and what appeared to be piles of tattered clothing. Bottles and other garbage littered the rest of the floor except of a narrow path leading to the rear.

Erik looked around with a sneer as he made his way towards the old man. He was surprised when he looked up and saw the man had turned to look at him with vacant eyes.

"Who are you, what do you want?" said the man with a voice so little used it barely resonated in the small space.

"I am looking for old Mici. I need advice on traveling through the mountains." He said, throwing his voice so that it sounded like he was right at the old man's ear.

"Ha, why do you need advice just take the road." said the man, chuckling dryly.

"I can't use the road. Are you old Mici or not?" he asked, sounding menacing. The old man raised himself up from the cot slowly and squinted his eyes to see his visitor. In the dim light of the hut all he could make out was the black of his hooded cloak in silhouette, but it didn't seem to bother him.

"To bad you aren't death come to take me to hell instead of an idiot trying to commit suicide. But whatever suits you sir. How much coin are you willing to donate for such advice?" asked the old man, becoming slightly more animated at the thought of getting paid.

Erik rattled a few coins in his pocket as answer. Getting up on skinny legs that seemed unable to support him, Mici moved towards Erik. He came very close as he walked past him, stirring the air with more stench. The old man stopped at one of the vile piles of rags and began to rummage through them. In a moment he came up with a tattered portfolio.

"Here. This is all you'll need to get you through, though I can't vouch for avoiding the monsters and witches in the old forest." Mici extended his bony arm to the phantom.

"How do I know these are any good?" he asked. The old man laughed out loud, more strongly than someone as brittle as he seemed capable.

"I drew that myself. As a young man I worked for the witch until she cursed me. You'll find no better, and no one else willing to stray from the roads. If you get lost, I promise you can come back and kill me. Now, give me the money." The old man tossed the booklet to Erik and held out his wrinkled hand for payment.

Erik looked back at him incredulously, but decided that this would be enough for now. He stuffed the portfolio into his jacket and tossed a few gold pieces at the man who took them and returned to his place on the filthy cot, paying no more attention to his guest.

The phantom wasted no more time on the old man and exited the hovel, scowling at how those few minutes in all that refuse made him feel contaminated. Phantom, opera ghost or monster, Erik was very self-conscious about his own personal hygiene. It had been taxing over these weeks of being on the road not having the access to a proper bath, so as soon as he found the privacy and opportunity to get clean he would not pass it up.

Erik had considered finding a place in the city to spend the rest of the night and all of the next day before continuing on, but there was something niggling at the back of his mind warning him to leave the city while he still had the opportunity. By the time the sun threatened to break free of the horizon he'd left Hallstatt behind.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

A freezing rain and high wind had begun to sweep thru the forest, bringing with it a bitter chill. Eric didn't know the name of this primeval wilderness. The undergrowth was dense and the canopy high above was so thick that even at mid-day only a trembling twilight spread all around him. A light mist scattered about the terrain, undulating into nameless forms before dissipating and reforming a little farther away, giving the atmosphere an air of magic.

Through an eerie quiet the muffled sounds of animals could be periodically heard, but they all sounded faraway, as if even the beasts were haunted in this place. The lack of light and imposing stillness might have reminded him of his life underneath the opera house, but this place lacked that familiarity. All the phantom felt was a disquiet that rattled his senses, like there were eyes upon him constantly, even though no breath, step or voice pierced the murkiness.

Mici's map had directed him to a scarcely used path leading into the forest. It should bring him through the Dachstein Mountains and on towards Budapest. The very same trail the old man had warned him not to use. The crossing would take nearly 2 weeks as he trekked through dense forests, up and down hills, mountains and rough territory most dared not travel.

Eric still could not traverse the common road through the open pass along with regular people, or he would be quickly discovered and dispatched. Even though he had seen no traces of human encampments he was well supplied with a rifle with which to hunt, his sword on his hip, a pistol in his coat, and a dagger in his boot for defense. He also carried a large satchel of food and bladder of water.

Three days of cautiously trudging along the forest passage passed before he realized the path was a game trail that cut thru the trees in a meandering route, finding the easiest ground and often intersected by bubbling creeks and fast moving streams. He took it as a blessing, and even dared to travel during the day, allowing his pale skin to slowly grow less yellow and ashen from by the suns exposure. It was very odd to him at first so he still clung to the shadows as much as possible.

Every so often he would pass very near or through a clearing, and see a large stag watching over a harem of doe's. These meadows seemed like an oasis of sunlight, and he'd even dared to step into them uncovered by his cloak and drink in the warmth of the sun.

Eric thought back to when he dreamed of a life in the light. Had it really only been months since he'd left Paris behind? Now he felt like a totally different person than the specter who'd clung to the night. Maybe if he spent more time in the light, he might be able to convince himself there was never any phantom or angel?

When he'd sent Christine away the entire world had shattered around him and the only anchor he'd had in life had been ripped away, leaving him to flounder and drown. It felt like life was over, and although he'd always been a resilient creature the pain of that loss seemed too heavy a burden to bear till his natural death. But without the weight of those addictions Eric somehow began to consider other possibilities. He knew he'd never be free of the wounds from those experiences, but maybe he could find a way to go on, and the bleeding might be curbed.

Perhaps he could just disappear into the wilderness, never to see or speak to another soul again. Never to risk his life or another's with his malediction. The only fault in that plan would be the lack of music. Even in the hollow depths of the Garnier music was always at his fingertips, so he never had to suffer the silence for long. It crept into his lair and soul through the lonely tunnels and waterways, reverberating down from the stage. When he'd finally achieved the skill enough to carve an organ into the living wall of his home, he relished being able to make the stone and glistening lake dance with his unearthly melodies.

Since his excommunication he'd relied more and more on the memories of voices raised high in song and instruments screeching ethereal tunes to break through the blackness. In the end the silence had become deafening, and in these brief moments of serenity he'd always return to that longing, but inevitably it would remind him of all the unfulfilled yearnings, the ache for which left him painfully depressed.

No, there was no place for him in this world. His only destiny was one for the damned. For the moment he could only appreciate this short sojourn in the light. He could never linger very long in hopefulness. All it would take is seeing his reflection in water to remind him of his hatefulness.

Worst of all were the dreams. In them he'd see again the faces of his victims, and recall the strange mixture of horror and elation that filled him in the moment when life left their eyes. Sometimes the role would be reversed and he would be dangling over the stage twitching the last bits of energy from his muscles, or reaching fruitlessly towards the black drapes as a dark crazed figure strangling him from behind.

There were so many ways to die that his subconscious never lacked a freshly frightening scenario, but the one constant was always the audience to his demise. There were visions of being trampled by an angry mob, paraded for the mocking crowds and finally being drawn and quartered. Maybe he'd be honored with a death by firing squad, where each gunman had the face of a character from his past.

Laughing, screeching, heckling and berating him. He'd even seen himself back in Boldo's cage as a wraith of a human being, beaten and starving. Dancing like a trained bear for tidbits of moldy bread or rotten meat. There was no end to the nightmares he decided, except death, and it was to that he traveled.

He always knew that it was the last bit of his humanity warring with the monster his rage, pain and inherent evil had borne. Whether it was his destiny to wear death's face or a matter of mere chance he'd never know. What he did know was that he really was no better than any other man, driven by one desire or other to acts of grotesqueness. He'd never seen an example of a good man, only some men better able to control their inner beast than others. It was difficult to imagine himself as one of these, even if the circumstances of his life had been different, but he also knew that some part of him wished to escape the evil and raise up to heavens light.

When the feet of the mountain came into view he was gratified to find a path winding high up the mountainside that and was able to climb with little hazard. It took half a day to traverse and by the time he'd reached the apex and gone through a short craggy passage dusk had fallen and all the terrain before him was a blanket of fog.

He made his away along a short ledge until he found a small area where he set up camp. It was along a high shelf on the eastern side of the mountain, protected by a large rocky overhang. It would shield him from the wind and he could light a fire with little risk of being seen from afar.

It reminded him of home again, nestled against the artificial lake underneath the opera house. Often on cool nights a mist would form above the water that danced and swirled as if manipulated by unseen forces. During those times he'd fall upon the stony bank, delirious after hours or days of composing, and imagine that little fairies lived within the mist.

They would make dainty designs in the clouds to entertain or entice him. It was part and parcel to the delusions that made him believe he was something more than human, an angel of the night. He shuttered as the feeling of loss again overcame him. That world, fanciful as it was, was gone forever.

It seemed suddenly like a lifetime ago. Eric had believed himself superhuman and powerful, with his only link to the material world being her divine voice, piercing the gloom. That fantasy, like so many others was becoming nothing more than a part of the distant echo of a former life. Had it really been only a matter of months since he'd been that man?

In the last illumination of twilight and the small flicker of his fire Eric looked around his camp, taking inventory. He'd been traveling the forest for over a week now and his reserves were running low. At day break he would have to double back to the clearing and kill a deer.

He laughed to himself as the thought made him cringe, since he had taken life before without qualm, and human life at that. Perhaps it was the animal's innocence that made him hesitate, the same innocence and purity Christine had. He closed his eyes, trying to close his heart, and in time only the comforting coldness of resentment and animosity lingered. Hate would be his only mantra from now on.

He'd always tried to maintain a cold indifference toward the lives he'd taken. Boldo had been the first and he'd taken particular pleasure in the act, unloading all his childhood hurt and frustrations. Than there'd been the random idiots who dared to search for the opera ghost. Some had fallen victim to the many traps he'd set through the labyrinth and catacombs, or just become lost and died of thirst or despair. Their stupidity made him angry as it made him feel like it was such a waste, and he didn't understand or like that feeling. It was quite a chore disposing of these unfortunate souls before the stench of decay overcame him. Thankfully they were few and far between, perhaps only a handful over his 2 decades there.

Once there was a young actor working in the Opera Populaire who when drunk, would wonder very near to the phantoms lair screaming threats and taunts. One night he'd come too close and drowned in the lake after he'd been pushed in. A short investigation had ensued, until the body had been found hanging from box 5 of the opera house. It had served as a useful deterrent to others who might venture too far into the bowls of the establishment. Those occurrences had been pre-angel. Once she'd become the center of his like he cared little for anything else.

Then there was Joseph Buquet, whom he'd strangled using the Punjab lasso during the last performance of Il Mutto. That had been a closely calculated and carefully executed act. The blaggard had been on the phantoms radar for some time. Buquet had progressed from simply spying on the chorus girls in their changing rooms, to trapping them into empty rooms or dark corners.

The molestations had progressed until he'd been bold enough to rape a few whenever the opportunity presented itself. He'd threaten them, so the girls were too afraid to speak out. Combined with the fact that the fly man knew many of the same secrets passages and tricks the phantom used, made him a constant irritation.

When he'd wrapped the noose around Buquet's neck and watched the light leave his eyes, then dropped the corpse to the stage, scattering the dancing ballerinas like frightened geese, he felt like he'd carried out a kind of dark justice.

Then there was the last victim, Ubaldo Piangi. That had been a purely cold blooded murder. The man had simply been in the way. Although he'd been no great talent, the greasy Italian had been committed to the stage and even been exceedingly loyal to Carlotta the Prima Donna of the Opera Populaire.

He closed his eyes as a lump of guilt threatened to close his throat, hating himself for letting regret or compassion taint him. When had he become such a simpering fool… when Christine had kissed him of course. He knew that none of their deaths had been the act of an avenging dark angel. Each one had served his purpose and could not be condoned. But that one moment with his angel had been the key to unlocking something inside that he'd thought long dead. It was unfamiliar and unnerving.

He despised having such sober thoughts. He was a monster, and monsters didn't feel guilt or regret. He'd killed once and would do so again, more ruthlessly than he ever had. He would relish every drop of blood and be awash in the weeping of each victim before ending his own miserable existence.

With his resolve restored Eric settled under his blanket next to the fire, and willed himself to rest, demanding a dreamless sleep from his mind. It seemed no time passed from the moment he closed his eyes to when he opened them. Raising himself drowsily from his bed roll peered at the vista before him that was unfolding like a kaleidoscope of color.

Dawn had just broken over the mountains, bringing to life a long valley that stretched several miles to a tall ridge and a faraway high plateau. Had it not been for the path he followed this place was beyond easy discovery. Morning light swam over the leaves of trees in every shade of green, while the air itself seemed infused with pink. Streams flowing from the mountains in the distance shown like sparkling prisms cascading over cliffs into magnificent waterfalls. The glistening ribbon of a river could be traced among the foliage and disappearing from view into a thick forest. He stared in awe at the astounding beauty.

This was a world he had only ever imagined from fairytales, prose and poetry, full of wonder and discovery. In spite of himself he smiled, a tear broke free from his eye and rolled down his scarred cheek. Living in the depths of the Opera house. He'd had books to teach him about the world, pictures, paintings, and the continuous parade of strangers talking of their experiences in distant lands. None of this would ever compare to what he'd seen of the world in the last few weeks, and could surpass the glory of this sight. It was music of a kind he'd never experienced and he didn't want to blink lest he miss a beat.

Birds were rising from the trees in flocks of black and white, and the surface of a small lake below gave a perfect reflection of the blue sky. Eric didn't know how much time had passed when he finally turned away, but by the time he came around he realized that he'd stared transfixed while the best time for hunting had passed.

Instead of turning back to one of the clearings he would go down into the valley to find prey. Certainly in a place as magnificent as this there was plenty of game. The path on this side of the mountain was far steeper and he had to take extra care heading down, but more than once he lost his footing and slid down several feet on his backside. By the time he reached the bottom his trousers had torn, his satchel ripped, and he was covered in dust, scrapes and bruises.

Gathering himself and his belongings he made it to a brook gurgling briskly with crisp clear water. Feeling much safer and more secure than he should in the bright light of late morning, he stripped off his clothing and stepped into the thigh deep water. It was cold, being fed by the melting snows of the Dachstein Mountains, and although it made his cuts sting the warm May sun shone obligingly above. It was a delicious feeling to sink into the water.

As Erik watched the filth carried away he imagined all his past as if it were just a bad dream, and that somehow he had returned to the paradise from whence he came. All the blackness of his soul, the blood staining his hands, and the stench of evil on his skin might well be washing away in the brook.

The tension is his muscles began to release itself one knot at a time. By the time he finally came to himself the sun had already passed its mid-day point, and the growl from his stomach reminded him sharply of what he was supposed to be doing. He stood up quickly and moved toward the shore.

Looking into the clear water as he made his way, he noticed for the first time several plump fish swimming against the current. They seemed to be standing still, wagging their tails against the flow of the water. They slowly made way for his footsteps, and he nearly laughed at the sudden realization that this forest had again and almost on demand provided exactly what he needed at the moment he desired it. A brief shadow moved over him at the thought, but before he could linger on it he reached his small arsenal.

He originally had not thought of fishing as a suitable food source when he set out. The polluted river Sein that cut through Paris wasn't exactly a fisherman's paradise, and the sparse woods around the city had no streams from which to learn. Only deer and wild boar could be found there and only rarely.

Eric had never ventured any farther than it took him to return within the same night. The lake below the Garnier had very large catfish that would lurk about, but they were extremely unappealing. When one of the gargantuan creatures would die, unfailingly it would wash up on his doorstep heralded by the most horrendous stench.

He'd cooked fish purchased for him by Jules, the drunken carriage house servant he'd employed to do his bidding, but he'd never had to catch it himself. Surveying his choice of tools, he decided that both the rifle and pistol would be overkill, and the dagger was too small for effectiveness. That left the sword which he lifted gingerly, spinning it in the air several times as he prepared for battle.

He was hungry and the fish waited. They proved to be more of a challenge than he had anticipated, dodging his blade by darting to and fro, and he must have seemed a true Wildman dancing and splashing about the water chasing them. After over an hour of sparring he defeated his enemy, emerging with 4 wriggling fish speared onto his sword.

Placing his spoils on the pebbled shore, he took one at a time and cleaned them, allowing their blood and guts to be washed away downstream as a treat for those who had defeated him. His task complete he washed himself one last time in the flowing water, dressed and moved off to find a place to cook his meal and make a camp. The day had already been wasted for traveling, so he would relax and for perhaps the first time in his life act like a free man.

The forest continued to be very accommodating, and he quickly found a copse of trees grouped together in a small circle where the ground was dry, level, mostly free of debris, and offering a small patch in the middle where one could gaze at the stars. There was plenty of kindling and fallen branches to be found, and before the sun had disappeared behind the western mountains he had a fire going, had cooked and eaten his food, and now sat contentedly mending the damage to his bag and clothing.

He'd forgotten the feeling of eyes watching him or the sense of something magical in the air. As dusk gave way to darkness, he spread out his bundle and lay back watching the sky until he succumbed to sleep. With his guard down, his dreams took hold and soon he was wrestling those demons that never were far away from him.

The night stirred very little during his fretful sleep, until the muffled sound of a light mount approached his camp. The rider landed several feet away from Erik, careful not to wake him, and walked delicately to his sleeping form.

Hooded and cloaked, the intruder peered down at the strange traveler. After a moment of watching him sleep, they turned to the pile of weapons and the travel sack that had been propped against a tree and silently reviewing them. When dawn broke Erik was enraged to find he'd been robbed, and even more so to find a note placed lightly on top of his belongings.

It read:

" _Hello traveler. I hope you have found comfort and respite, but you are not welcome in my valley and will not be permitted to travel here armed. It is a day's hard march to the southeastern exit. Keep to the path and leave without delay, your weapons will be deposited at the end of the mountain path. Do not stray, lest your journey end abruptly. I will not hesitate to defend my valley by whatever means necessary. May God keep you."_

It had no signature, but the style of writing was elegant, indicating the writer was educated. And seeing they had infiltrated his small camp, managing to confiscate his weapons, meant they were capable. The note was written in French, but the style seemed old fashioned. Perhaps they had discerned his origins from the embossing of his journals or the contents therein. He writhed inwardly at the thought of someone even having perused his writing, but the booklets seemed undisturbed.

Eric loathed the thought of being under the command of another, but found few other options than to obey. He was a foreigner in a strange land and was now vulnerable without his sword, rifle and pistol. Even the dagger had been smoothly removed from his boot, but it wouldn't have offered much protection against a gun.

While hastily packing his things, Eric wondered why this person hadn't just killed him and been done with this intrusion of the valley, grateful none the less for not having been slain as he slept. But in the end it didn't matter since he was unlikely ever to meet his reluctant host face to face.

Eric pulled out the small leather mask he'd made for day wear and affixed it to the right side of his face, over which he pulled the hood of his cloak and proceeded where he'd been directed. It was really too warm for it, but he didn't want to be caught without it as he had in his sleep. Had the thief seen his deformity, or had the night been dark enough to hide him. He concluded that if they had seen he'd probably be dead. Most may suffer a man to pass, but not a monster, and he was a dangerous demon.

The path he'd been sent on was little more than a series of groves interspersed among the thickening trees. It was not the one on his map, which had remained in his keeping. As he walked the feeling of being watched remained pervasive, keeping him aware he was being followed. Had it not been for his focus on this unseen foe as he slid down the side of a small hill, he might have noticed the hulking figure into whose midst he had dropped.

When he came to a stop at the bottom of the hill he was greeted by a massive black bear that immediately stood on its hind legs and bellowed out a great roar. Eric's brain went into overdrive, trying to remember if he'd read anything about how to handle such an encounter. He recalled accounts of hunters being faced by gorillas and scaring the beast off by challenging them. So he filled his chest with air and yelled out back at the bear as strongly as he could, leaving his throat instantly raw from the effort. The only result was a growl that was small in comparison to the bear.

The animal was nonplussed by his outburst and proceeded to charge. He tried to scramble back the way he came, but could not get footing to climb back up the hill. He had also landed among a collection of rocks varying in size from pebbles to small boulders all around him. Before he could decide on a course of action the beast was baring down on him. It lifted one hefty paw and swiped at him, making contact with his torso and rending his clothes and flesh.

The blow knocked him over hard, landing him among the rubble. He struck his head into a large stone, causing his leather mask to fly off. His vision was immediately hazy, and all he could hear was a painful buzzing in his head. He knew the bear was coming back for the kill and he was helpless to fight back, so he stayed still, waiting for judgment. He couldn't be sure of the clarity of what he saw, but it appeared that death had arrived on horseback and driven the animal back. But did death ride a pearly white steed? And when death dismounted and ran to his side, why did it smell like flowers? The last thought he had before the world went black was that death was truly sweet.

The rider rushed over to the unconscious man lying on his right side against the rocks of the shallow gully. They carefully removed their gloves and felt around the injured man's neck searching for a pulse, then felt under his nose for proof of respiration. He was alive, but the blood now staining the rocks underneath him was a fretful sign. Knowing there were very few options, the rider grabbed Eric's wrist and using all the strength they had pulled him from the rubble.

Quickly they removed their cloak and wrapped the head and blood stained face, while Eric's own cloak was hastily bound around his waist to bind the bear's gash. As the rider knelt down and straightened his head, they gasped to see the malformation along the entire right side of the face. It was grotesque by most standards. The skin was mottled; pink in some places and pale grey in others where there was little or no blood flow.

The scarring was old, showing signs that infection had set in soon after it had occurred. The wounded flesh had been eaten away at over time, causing the muscle to curl, and bundle behind the ear. Underneath the skin dead tissue had sloughed, making the cheek thin and hollow, allowing the bone to stand out like that of a corpse. It left only a thin layer of skin between the world and the skull. Where the muscle had receded the skin had been pinched into wrinkled folds.

The rider felt instant sympathy for the creature. This had been a very painful injury for a long time, and probably still caused him discomfort. The rider checked the bindings one last time, making sure the man's head and neck were well supported, then took some rope and tied a loop under the arms and around the chest of the limp body. The other end was tied to the saddle of a horse.

It wasn't the ideal way of moving someone who'd been wounded, but leaving him there with the bear still lurking nearby was a death sentence. Nor could the rider waste time to go for help. So, taking the path slowly, choosing to step only where the ground was smooth or grass acted as a cushion, the rider led the horse back through the forest and deeper into the valley. Had the injured man been awake, the rider would have been very pleased to tell him in depth how much of an idiot he was to wonder the wilderness and not be paying attention.

After walking steadily for nearly an hour, the rider paused at the foot of a small hill. Leaving the horse and man, they sprinted up to the top. When in position they looked out over a stretch of wilderness to the outline of a large manor cradled against the mountainside that would be hidden from any other vantage point by design.

The rider pulled out a small metal tube whistle that hung on a chain around their neck and blew out several rapid tones of a code, then stood and waited. A moment later the sound of several short whistles came back in response. The rider returned to the bottom of the hill, collected the reins of the horse, checked the condition of their charge, and continued down the path towards the house.

Anyone else on approach to the building wouldn't have realized it loomed so close or large until they were practically upon the doorstep. Hidden into a crescent shaped formation of rock on the western side of the valley, it couldn't be seen from the north or south. The ancient towering pines of the forest began nearly 300 feet from its front entrance, giving it further cover from intruding eyes and gave no place where someone could take it all in to see it in its entirety.

It really was a strange structure the whole of which accommodated 20 rooms of various use and size, to include bedrooms, bathrooms, a library, storage room, kitchen and dining area. Its fashion was a mix of design and architecture from the last 1000 years. The main part and edifice was fresh and modern by the standards of the world at the time, having been rebuilt and refurbished several times, growing in addition both upward to 3 floors and outwards to several smaller buildings that led into the tree line.

Sprinkled around the surrounding woods were the crumbling remnants of medieval fabrication that may or may not have been part of the original building. That knowledge was no the province of one person. The same person who would from this moment on would determine the fate of the once Phantom of the Opera.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Too say she was annoyed was an understatement. Inara darted around the small room where all the medical supplies were kept; collecting everything she needed to tend the new uninvited guest. As was her practice she pondered every aspect that had led to these unfortunate events.

The snowfall this year and last had been ample, and compacted ice had made it easy for animals from the mountains searching for food to enter the valley from the west gate. As the snows melted they continued to come thru the small gap and over the months a small opening had been made bigger by the shifting of dirt and rocks as snow melted and hooves traversed through.

She'd noticed it last fall, but after having followed the path for several miles decided that the odds a man may penetrate the valley through this entrance was so insignificant there was nothing to worry about. And the chance for fresh game to enter would benefit their food stores. Inara had been wrong, because a man had indeed entered the valley; the same man who was lying in a bed in her home at this very moment with 3 long gashes across his abdomen and a bulging knot on his head.

She squeezed her eyes shut in frustration before taking a deep breath and returning to her work. After completing a quick inventory of her tray, she lifted it carefully and left the room. On her way to the stairs she stepped out a side door and to a small garden just outside the building.

It was late April and many of the plants were burgeoning from the earth in every shade of color Inara could think of. The garden boundary had been marked by a low roughhewn wall made up of all the different stones available in the valley, hinting at the age of the dwelling. Inara reminded herself in passing that this was another thing on her list of things that needed update. The world outside had seen an exorbitant amount of science, innovation and invention, and she intended to bring some of that into their hidden corner of the world.

Just inside the garden someone was eagerly digging into the earth, tilling the soil with his bare hands.

"Vincent, I need your help with our guest this morning. I need you to move him so I can replace the linens and change the pan." She called out on approach.

Vincent stood slowly and stretched out, reaching high into the sky and emitting a low rumble from his chest. Inara knew he'd been so satisfied playing in the dirt he'd been purring and she smiled at the thought.

"You mean he hasn't recovered yet? He was only scratched by that bear." He responded teasingly when he turned to meet his friend, and instantly regretted it when he saw the look of determined annoyance on Inara's face, in spite of that mischievous grin that threatened.

"Well, maybe being practically eviscerated isn't the same as a scratch." She replied, allowing a small bit of guilt to invade her voice. Vincent understood why, she was blaming herself for this poor fellow's situation. After all it was she who had relieved him of his weapons; leaving him without a way to defend himself against that angry mother bear. "Now stop teasing and come help me, but go wash your hands first. It would defeat the purpose of cleaning if oregano and lilac started growing in his bed." She shot back.

"Now you know very well the oregano is in the west garden, so that it can get the best sun. There are only flowering perennials here, at your request so that you can smell them every morning." He'd begun walking toward her and together they exited the garden, heading back to the open door. "You head on up, I'll wash and be there in a moment." Vincent said as he headed down the far hallway. Inara called after him.

"A moment doesn't mean after you've spent 30 minutes saying hello to your wife!" and she headed up the staircase chuckling to herself and confident that she wouldn't see Vincent for at least half an hour.

She climbed to the 3rd floor landing and made her way to the guest room, treading carefully in case the stranger had regained consciousness.

Steadying the tray on her right hand, she opened the door and peered inside. Everything looked exactly as she had left it the night before, including the peculiar person lying on the large bed in the center of the room. She walked over and placed the tray on the small side table before turning to look at her patient.

Inara noted that he'd turned his head to the left and was now facing the window from which the early morning light was streaming. It was a good sign, showing that the fever hadn't been so severe. He would be awakening soon, which also meant he would be gone soon.

She allowed herself to breathe a small sigh of relief. Once this interloper was gone things could go back to life as normal. For several minutes she simply looked at him. The deformity of his face was clearly visible. She wondered how he'd been marked so horrifically. Was it an accident, a punishment perhaps, or had it been intentional.

Several strands of hair had fallen against his cheek and she absently pushed them behind his ear. The expression he wore was almost serene as he slept and she found herself rather distractedly touching the marred skin of his face, tracing its outline all the way along the side of his head right behind his ear where it ended. The way the texture turned from rough to smooth was unconsciously pleasing.

When she heard the heavy footfalls of someone coming down the hall she nearly jumped and berated herself for being at all sympathetic with the man. Certainly a man such as this wasn't prowling the wilderness heavily armed because he was a saint. She stood up and went to the door to let Vincent in.

The room had been equipped with a locking mechanism and you had to know where the catch was in order to get in or out, a necessary precaution to protect everyone. She managed to reach the door and open it just as Vincent approached.

"Would you go to the hall closet and fetch fresh bed clothes, I'd forgotten." She managed, trying to divert the slightly embarrassed flush to her cheek before her friend noticed. With a small chuff Vincent turned on one heal to go back the way he'd came, but before he'd gone a few steps there was a loud crash behind Inara and she disappeared back into the room.

With his natural felinity, Vincent moved quickly and came in right behind her to see the man on the floor next to the bed. In his clumsy attempt to get up he'd knocked down the tray of medical supplies to land sprawled face down on the ground. Inara dropped down next to him and grabbed his arm to pull him over onto his back so that she could check the stitches and bandage across his belly. If the wound had opened again it could lead to a more severe infection. Thankfully he was once again unconscious.

Vincent dropped down on the other side of his body waiting for her diagnosis. The man was naked except for the bandages around his waist, so Inara removed the pin holding them in place and carefully lifted the gauze to inspect the laceration.

"He's fine." She announced, "But leave him there for a moment so I can go ahead and clean up. At least it doesn't look like anything is broken, just all over the place." She stood and began the task. "He's lucky he's in such good shape; the flesh is taut enough so that there isn't a lot of pull on the stitches. That's probably why they didn't tear." She mumbled. Vincent had to hide a snicker in response to her comment, because for her that was as good a compliment about the stranger's physique as any she'd ever made about another living soul other than her horse.

Vincent regarded the stranger, much as he had when he'd first arrived. He took note of the crisscross of scars that marked the man's skin from shoulder to calve. This was a man who had a hard life, no doubt because of his face, which probably meant his soul had also been equally abused. Vincent inhaled deeply, honing his empathic abilities and aiming it at the body, but all he could sense was confusion with anxiety covering an ocean of anguish.

As one of the last of a dying race Vincent had scars of his own, and shared a moment of sympathy with the stranger. He'd come through a stronger man, and more confident in his own character and integrity. But not everyone comes through tribulation with an enlightened view of things. In fact most take the low road of rage and vengeance. Where did this fellow fall?

When she was done she collected the tray, which Vincent had reassembled, from the floor and performed another inventory. She then came back to help lift the man back to the bed. Vincent was amused as always that she believed he needed help to pick him up, so he scooped up the body and stood in one effortless motion before she could lend a hand.

"Be careful not to bend his waist." She said with a look of aggravation. Vincent walked easily to the other side of the bed and set the man down on the fresh sheets. Inara immediately began unraveling the bandage, cleaning the wound, applying a medicinal salve, and redressing it. Just as she was about to place the pins to hold the gauze a hand suddenly appeared and roughly grabbed her wrist, making her look up to a pair of wild eyes gazing at her accusingly.

Vincent moved with his cat like speed to pry Inara's hand from the stranger's grip, but when the man turned to look at him his eyes went with shock. He began to struggle violently against Vincent's grip. He was strong for a man so injured and who had just awoken after a day and a half of sleep. Inara knew that the man was acting out of fear, so she moved forward and placed a gentle a hand on each cheek, forcing him to look at her, and spoke slowly in French.

"No one here is going to hurt you, so there is nothing to fear. Please stop or you will hurt yourself. You are wounded and we are tending your injuries. Please stop fighting! The man looked nervously into her eyes, glancing back to Vincent, and finally trying to wrestle away from him. She had to unlock Vincent's grip on the man's wrist before he crushed it. After his earlier fall, the exertion of energy in fighting had been too much for the stranger. He tried for a moment to speak, but then fell unconscious again. Inara looked anxiously to Vincent before assessing if any damage had been done to the injury. Finding everything in order she drew the coverlet over her patient and collected her remaining supplies.

"You shouldn't be alone with this man, he's much stronger than he looks." He said worriedly.

"As am I and I have other hidden talents as you know. I have nothing to fear." She stated flatly as she picked up the tray and headed out of the room with Vincent following closely behind. "Would you take these dirty sheets to Catherine, I think she needs one more good morning from you."

"I'd still feel better if someone was with you whenever you tend him. It wouldn't kill you, but it would certainly ease all our minds." Inara chuckled at the implication and nodded acquiescence. They parted ways at the bottom of the stairs. For a moment she stood alone in the small store room and allowed a feeling of dismay to descend. She didn't like the thought of using extreme measures to protect her home and family, especially after having taken such pains to nurse this man back to health, but she would if she had too. She looked down at her hands, as she had done countless times before, wondering how she would handle more blood on them.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Erik was fighting against the fog with all his strength, but his legs were like lead when he tried to run, his arms were so heavy that he was struggling to remain standing. When he tried to inhale the stench of smoke made his lungs close up. Then suddenly the fog became a sea of living bodies crushing in against him and screaming. Each face above him, fixed in a visage of horror. Their hands were pushing him down, and although he bent all his will to get away he couldn't be free.

And she was there, Christine's face was among the ghastly throng with blood stained tears streaking across her face. Her features were contorted as if locked in a gut wrenching sob. He tried to call out to her, even sing to her as he had from behind the mirror but his chest was too constricted for him even to breathe. He wanted to die and was expecting to at any moment when he felt a cool cloth pressed against his forehead.

Christine looked up at something behind Erik. As she reached out her hand her face swirled and began to fade. Erik directed all his strength to call out to her, but managed only a strained whisper before the horrendous vision dissolved in a blur. Out of the haze a new face materialized, but it wasn't anyone Erik could recall ever seeing, especially so close he could look into the depth of dark amber eyes.

Suddenly the world around him began to materialize. Beyond the floating face he saw the canopy of a four poster bed come into being, and through his peripheral vision he could make out a large room with bright windows to the left.

Hazily he recalled having been in this room before, and struggling to free himself from a beastly grip. There had been a figure lurking over him then. The face had to of been another dream, because it wasn't human. Or perhaps it was a mask like the one he wore? A face like none he'd ever seen before, like the melding of a man and a lion.

The cool water from a cloth being patted against his face dripped down his cheeks, bringing him back to the present. He felt panic as it touched the right side of his unmasked face, but he couldn't command his limbs to move in protest.

More and more details were starting to come into focus. He now was able to see the hand touching him, then the arm and finally the form of a woman sitting next to him on the bed. He was so stunned that all he could do was look into her face, and she was looking back at him intently. She dipped the cloth back into a small basin to freshen it, and then returned to carefully pat his neck and shoulders.

When she moved down to continue down his chest he immediately became aware that he could feel cool air on his entire body from head to toe, and that there was an aching throb of pain over his abdomen. He tried to remember what had happened and closed his eyes as wave after wave of images crashed over him.

His opera, Christine singing, Christine kissing him, Christine leaving with Raoul, then darkness and running; he'd left Paris and was traveling night after night through forests, mountains, and a valley. There was a bear coming at him, and Erik clutched at the bedcover as his mind braced itself for the attack.

The hand that was touching him was gone now and as the image of the bear lunged at him from his memory he opened his eyes to search the room. The woman was now standing and picking through a tray on a night table near his head. He watched her as she examined it. Even from this position he could tell she was tall, but not overtly so for a woman, and would still stand a few inches shorter than his 6 feet. Her skin was lightly tanned like she'd spent lots of time in the sun, but with a bright, clear and smooth complexion that reminded Erik of café au lait with a sprinkle of cinnamon.

She might be Mediterranean, he considered. Her hair was long and flowed freely down her back in gentle waves. It was a dark, earthy brown that seemed to shimmer as the light from the window filtered through it, accentuating a mix of russet and copper highlights. There was some sort of pin clipped on the back of her head to keep the strands from falling into her face. Erik couldn't make out the design, but it shined bright gold as the light hit it.

He was disturbed from him observations when the woman turned back to him, sat again on the edge of the bed and began to examine his mid-section. Erik tried to speak, but his mouth was so dry that it was an effort for him to even part his lips, until he felt an acute sting come from the skin of his stomach that made him groan.

"Hold still!" said the woman forcefully. "An infection has set into the cut, that's why it stings when I apply the salve, but in a moment as the medicine does its work the pain will subside and the area will feel cool and numb." Her French was like that of old Normandy, with that old world lilt and fashion.

When she returned to the tray, Erik managed to lift his head far enough to get a view of his injury. Three gashes began from just underneath his left ribcage, about 6 inches long, and stopping just above his naval. It had been expertly stitched, but the tissue was swollen and red.

Eric then saw lower and noted that he was completely naked, giving him more of a shock than the wound. He laid his head back and fought the flush of heat traveling quickly up his neck. Managing somehow to clear his throat he gained the attention of the woman, and he had only a moment to take in the beauty of her features.

Her eyes were almond shaped and heavy lidded above high cheek bones, giving her a pervasive sultry look. In them he saw a depth that seemed to instantly pierce him and he swallowed hard against the sensation. Her lips were full, pouting and rosy. Her brow was smooth and bore the countenance of a girl in her 20's perhaps. Erik suddenly had the thought that he had somehow traveled in time and found Helen of Troy, but this was far from what concerned him most.

"Madam" he muttered "if I could beg for… a little courtesy from you… and ask that you respect my modesty and raise… the blanket." Speaking had taken the breath out of him, so he hoped he wouldn't have to ask again. The woman looked back at him befuddled, but when she glanced down at the blanket she realized he referred to having his body exposed.

Without any apology she lifted the sheet up to cover him to the hips and continued with her work. Erik tried to command his limbs to move. He had to subdue this strange nurse and force his liberty if necessary. Every well trained molecule in his being demanded he act, but none would obey.

His mind worked frantically, and his stress was apparent in the sudden quick rise in his respiration, but the woman didn't respond to it. When the job was done, she quickly raised the sheet to fall across his chest, and then moved to collect her tray and leave the room, but he managed to call after her before she was able to exit. When she turned to look at him he was struck with the thought again, _Helen of Troy, men have died for your beauty._

"Who are you?" he asked in the more common English. The woman looked at him with conflicted eyes for a few seconds before she spoke.

"You are a guest in my home monsieur, give me your name and I will give you mine." Her voice had lost the hard edge with which she had addressed him earlier, but was still matter of fact.

"Erik… Destler." He answered slowly, a heaviness beginning to crowd him.

"Are you French?" she asked, but he didn't answer. He didn't know what game she intended to play with him, but he wasn't going to be so easily led. She let out a small sigh. "My name is Inara. I have no surname." He raised an eyebrow in response. The name was exotic, but somehow familiar.

"Where am I?" he asked before she could turn away, not really wanting her to leave and feeling apprehensive about being left alone. Even after nearly a lifetime of internment underneath the opera house it wasn't his preference to be alone.

"In the valley." she answered.

"How did I get… here?" he asked as his eyes scanned the room. It was becoming harder to remain lucid.

"You frightened a mother bear protecting her cub and she attacked you. That was 3 days ago, and I have been tending your wounds." Her eyes darted around the room for a moment before settling back on him, and a small blush darkened her cheeks for a fleeting moment. Erik had spent all his life watching others and studying their body language, and although someone else might not have noticed he did.

"It was you…" he started to accuse, but she cut him off.

"The wounds weren't deep, but you hit your head as you fell and have been mostly unconscious. And as I mentioned there was an infection. You'll need at least two more weeks to recover and be able to leave." She gave that last word emphasis, letting him know that this was what she wanted. "I'm sure you're thirsty, so I'll return shortly with some water and broth." On cue, the dryness of his mouth became like sandpaper. But he would not be dismissed.

"What is this place? And what was that beast I fought with?" he asked. She looked at him with indignation.

"This place is my home. It is also a refuge for those people who… are different then what the world at large deems acceptable. Something I would expect you would be sympathetic to. Vincent isn't the only other person in this place who is different, and for your own safety you should not venture from this room alone." She ended with a definite tone of resentment, acknowledging for the first time his ruined features.

"Where are my weapons?" He asked, trying to sound malicious.

She took a few rapid steps toward the bed, nearly sending the contents of the tray to the floor as she came to an abrupt stop, but she didn't waiver when answering.

"This is my valley, and I will defend it and all its inhabitants by whatever means I deem necessary." Her eyes flashed as she spoke.

"Then why not finish me off and be done… with it; why bother curing me… what is it you want?" he asked weakly.

"Would you rather that I let you die?" he didn't respond, but looked squarely at her trying to break her resolve, but she would not be moved and gazed back at him vehemently. "When someone saves your life, it's best to be thankful and keep your suspicions to yourself. For some people kindness and compassion are natural virtues." And with that she turned sharply and left the room.

Erik's head fell back against the pillow while he tried to analyze his current situation, but the grogginess won and he was asleep in seconds. The last thing he thought before his eyes drifted closed was that for the first time in his adult life he'd been naked in front of a woman, no clothes and no mask.

Very little time must have passed by the time he awoke. The light in the room had dimmed to reflect the falling of dusk outside the windows, and several lamps were now being lit. Inara strolled around the room until she reached the window where. She stood looking out for several moments. The receding light touched her face, making it look even softer and more beautiful.

Erik watched her, transfixed as if she were a waking dream. Like a ghost haunting the air with an ethereal presence. She wore the same dress he'd seen her in earlier, so it must be the same day. It was a lavender pastel frock whose fashion he could not place, and as she leaned forward unencumbered to close the glass of the window he knew she wore no corset.

The bodice of her dress fitted her torso closely and he could make out the curve of her waist into her hips, the flatness of her stomach up to her ribs, and the protuberance of her breast. He became so enthralled in examining her that he barely noticed that she had turned and was coming towards him until she stood only feet from the bed. When he looked up to see her face, she had a definite smirk and he felt instant chagrin.

"I was afraid you'd sleep through dinner." Her tone was in great contrast to the earlier recrimination. It was amiably and he responded with a tentative nod.

The tray was again sitting on the nightstand, but now it had a bowl, bread, water, and a wine glass. His thirst had been uncomfortable up to this moment, but in an instant he felt it acutely.

"Do you think you can sit up a bit?" Without getting an answer, Inara leaned toward him and tucked her hands beneath his arms. She gave him a gentle tug to urge him into a partially sitting position, which he achieved with only minimal pain as she stacked pillows behind him. He was still too weak to fight back, even with a woman, plus there was the threat of the man-beast, so he didn't resist.

It gave him mild trepidation when she touched him, but her hands were warm and he even felt a little bereft when she let go. Having come so close her scent lingered around him. She smelled like a mix of flower petals and he was reminded of the dressing room at the Palais Garnier where he'd spent many long hours as a voyeur.

Her long hair brushed against his left cheek as she adjusted the pillows and he was immediately reticent about his horrid face. Even though she had spent the last few days hovering over him, he decided to be careful of it and to keep his face turned forward enough so she wouldn't be overexposed to the tortured features of his right side. She'd had all that time to adjust and was able to hide her disgust, but he'd never be used to the look of contempt in peoples eyes. Since he was essentially a prisoner in this place he shouldn't care, he reminded himself, but old habits die hard.

A chair had been placed next to the bed and she settled herself delicately into it. Inara lifted the bowl into her lap and stirred the contents for a few seconds. When she began to raise it up Erik extended his hands to take it from her.

"I don't think so. You're not strong enough to be trusted feeding yourself in bed and I don't feel like having to change the linens again. I will feed you, but you'll have to face me." He was struck with dismay. Unbeknownst to this woman, she was shaking boundaries Erik had never thought to cross.

"I have a mask in my satchel if you would hand it to me." He said, gesturing to the floor where his belongings lay. She furrowed her brow with a look of confusion, glancing at the bag and then back to Erik.

"If you mean that ghastly white porcelain mask I would rather not. It is frightening. Why would you need a mask?" now it was his turn to look at her with befuddlement and made a gesture to the right side of his face. She made a small chuckle then stretched her hand forward to seize his chin. She turned him slowly to look directly at her so she could look over all his features. He was shocked into complacency, added to the surprise that she neither made a grimace nor shuddered, and that she willingly made such physical contact with him.

"Doesn't it frighten you?" he asked.

"If it bothered me, I would have already put the mask on you myself. I assure you there is no need, and surely it would make eating too difficult, but if you insist and it would make you more comfortable?" When he didn't respond she took it as agreement and withdrew her hand to proceed with feeding him.

Erik took every spoonful she fed him carefully, and was struck to the marrow by the feeling of intimacy that having someone feed you can evoke. She would every so often pat his lips with a napkin, and he had to fight a tremor each time. He did his best to hide what he felt, for she had no way to know what this simple compassionate act was making him feel or why. Unless she had read the journals he'd kept inside his travel bag, but if she had how could she be treating him with such care. He was an extortionist, murderer, and monster. All had been revealed in those pages, and he had no doubt that she was educated enough to read the bold French style in which he wrote.

When he'd finished the broth, she began pulling apart bits of the bread and offered them to him. He almost refused, feeling it was just too much for him at this stage, but she wouldn't be deterred and waited with her hand extended until he opened his mouth to accept it. After a few bites, she yet again did another surprising thing and ate a small bite of the bread. She must have seen the slightly astonished look he gave.

"It really is delicious bread, so I hope you don't mind me snacking with you. The young woman who cooks for us is a very accomplished baker and I'm very partial to this particular loaf." She said with a coy giggle, and another morsel disappeared between her lips. Erik didn't know what to say or do; he'd never been in any situation as cordial or normal as this.

"Please, help yourself." He said with as normal a voice as he could muster. They continued to eat, Inara only intermittently popping a piece of the loaf into her mouth. When it was done, she took the water and brought it to his lips to drink. He took small sips, thinking that when the meal was done she would be gone again. After the water she gave him small sips of the wine, but this time when she patted his lips with the napkin she very openly looked at his marred flesh and ran her finger along his cheek.

Ripples of electricity lit every limb of his body. She was so different than the cold nurse whom he'd dealt with before, but why the change? _She pities me!_ He thought, and jerked his head away to break the connection. The woman sat back, furrowing her brow in a disapproving expression.

"How did this happen to you." She asked. He wasn't surprised by the question, but he was still hesitant to discuss it. He averted his eyes before answering; making sure his right side was again turned away.

"I've been like this all my life." He answered coolly.

"No you haven't." She said, "I've seen this type of scar before. It looks like a burn, like scalding, and you were very young from the way the tissue has settled over time."

Erik stared back at her dumbstruck. This was a revelation whose implications he hadn't considered. Never before had he questioned that he'd been cursed since birth to be this thing, but to think suddenly that he'd once been normal was a concept beyond imagining. And to think that this may have been done to him purposefully turned his mind instantly to the gypsies and his level of hate and loathing toward them took a deeper turn within.

Inara watched as this myriad of emotions played themselves out only in his eyes, since he managed to keep his expression placid. She made a mental note, knowing that this was not a discussion that he was ready to have if ever, and that it really was not her place to press him for more information about it. Amiable she could be, as Catherine had advised, but there was no call for dangerous curiosity. Inara stood and arranged the items on her tray, using the time to school her thoughts. When she was satisfied with their placing, she turned to address him.

"Since you're feeling better I've placed a chamber pot here on the floor for you. There is a bathroom behind that door" she gestured to the far corner of the room to his right, "but your injuries are still too fresh for you to be moving around. I'll be back in the morning just after daybreak with some breakfast." She wanted to leave it at that. Getting to familiar was not what she wanted to do, but instinct pulled her back. This man was probably well accustomed with people turning their back on him, if she were no better than the rest of the world in his case the hypocrisy would eat away at her.

"If you like we can spend some time reading. I have an extensive library with books on any subject that might interest you, although some might be slightly out of date. Do you have any requests?" Erik shook his head reflectively.

"Whatever pleases you." He said. She cocked her head to one side, giving him a questioning look.

"Perhaps a high adventure than, poetry, or maybe a drama." Erik's befuddled look was the only reply. "Hmm, well if you need anything pull on that rope right above you. The nights are still chilly so I've set a small fire in the hearth. Would you like me to extinguish the lamps now or come back in a couple of hours?" He considered her question for a moment.

"If you could return in a little while that would be fine. Would you hand me my satchel please?" he asked.

She retrieved the bag and placed it on the bed next to him, and without saying anything further she left the room. Erik sat staring after her for some time before he opened his bag to take inventory of the contents. Except for his weapons, everything was just as he'd left it. The mask was there, wrapped in black crushed velvet and his journals were still lining the bottom stacked in the same order as he'd placed them. It seemed she had not read them, and he sighed with relief.

Ever since his imprisonment, Erik's need to keep a careful control over his life had been crucial to survival. In the months since leaving the Garnier, it had been that loss of control that had made life most difficult, even in contrast to Christine's abandonment. Adaptive he may be, as well as adept, tenacious and genius, but the old wounds still festered, and the fearful child inside him could never be consoled.

Inara had chided herself all day for how she had treated the stranger. He had thus far done nothing to deserve her crass behavior and she still blamed herself for his injuries. She committed herself to treating him as amicably as she would anyone else when she brought him his supper.

The herbs she'd mixed in with the salve had made him sleep most of the day, but she couldn't keep drugging him until he was well enough to leave. She had to be sure that when he did leave there would be no reason for him to return or betray them to the outside world, and the best way she knew to do that was to be in his good graces.

She replayed the old adage in her mind "you catch more flies with honey" over and over to herself and when she came to his room to feed him she felt rather calm and friendly. It clearly had not been what he expected as evidenced by his growing discomfort throughout the meal, but as she sat quietly with him she felt more at ease and even allowed her curiosity to lead her to inquire about his face.

They didn't get many visitors, and aside from those on the outside she employed to provide supplies, books, and information there hadn't been the chance to get to know someone new in a very long time. His would definitely be an interesting story to tell. She'd glimpsed his journals when on that first encounter with him in the forest, but it would have been wrong to invade his privacy so she hadn't read them. The French he'd muttered in his sleep on that first night gave her the knowledge of his origins.

Of all the languages she knew, French was really one of her favorites. It felt lavish to speak a language that so easily rolled off the tongue and with such rich pronunciations. It was truly romantic and she looked forward to having the opportunity to speak it and hear it spoken to her, especially with a voice as melodic as his.

Although he hadn't spoken much, the tenor of his voice was very pleasing. She wondered if he could sing, but remembered quickly that this was an intruder to her home, not a dinner guest. There would be no opportunity to measure his vocal talents or any talent he may have.

After the meal when she'd left him she felt a little bemused. He'd believed he'd been born disfigured, but that simply was not the case. Having seen almost every type of injury there could be, she easily could tell by the characteristics of the flesh that it had been inflicted upon him.

Where were his parents and how had he been raised? And the mask; although she wasn't surprised to see he had one he almost seemed dependent on it. She'd made a point of acting like it wasn't even there. Had he been so repulsed by the outside world that he felt he always needed to hide? But he spoke so well and was literate, so someone at some time must have taught him.

Although he could be self-taught, perhaps even a prodigy? She knew all too well how those forced to live on the fringe could, by observation, become masters of many subjects. Or perhaps he'd just lived a very secluded life, but if so, what could have brought him to journey so far from France? She traversed the familiar corridors of her home distractedly considering the mysterious man she had attended when she collided with a small squat personage.

"Dimitri! If neither of us look where we're headed we're going to crash every time we cross paths." She chastised as she steadied her tray.

"Ach, you've got a better view up there than I so stop your nagging and keep your head about you. Daydreaming all the time, a woman your age…" Dimitri waived her off as he scrambled to move past her, muttering all the way.

Inara almost dropped her tray again, trying to restrain her laughter. It seemed at least twice a day every day that she would trip over him. She managed to catch one of his flailing hands before he could get away, and addressed him in a very serious tone.

"The plumbing in the upstairs guest rooms hasn't been looked over in decades an..."

"That's because we haven't had guests in decades!" he guffawed. Inara worked to give him as annoyed a look as she could. Despite his constant diatribe, Inara found him very endearing and found great entertainment in their 'exchanges'. Perhaps if the universe had arranged itself differently they might have been lovers in another life, a thought that always made her smile.

"I'm going to meet Yuri in 2 weeks, so I would greatly appreciate it if you would make sure everything is working properly by then. But don't go in there without Vincent or me."

"Why? I don't need a guard cat!" he sounded as irritated as ever, but Inara knew he understood her meaning. She also knew that Dimitri wasn't the kind of man to do as he was told, so she nearly had to pout. "Please Dimitri; I don't want anything to happen to you. I don't trust that man."

"Ech! No? You're more likely to trust the bear that nearly killed him. I'd bet my tools that after being gutted by the beast that he's not likely to be a threat." He said, extricating his hand from her grip and disappearing down another hallway, continuing to grumble.

Inara huffed out a hard breath and then proceeded to her destination. She entered the large kitchen from where Dimitri had exited and where 3 women were twittering about.

"Did he enjoy the meal?" asked a petite woman that sat on a stool around a wide counter set in the middle of the room. A large collection of fresh vegetables was assembled and the trio were busy working peas from their pods, assembling sprigs of herbs, etc. It was the first harvest of spring and the bounty overflowed.

"He didn't mention it, but he didn't leave a drop or morsel either." Inara teased as she cleaned the plates and put them away. The woman placed her hands on her hips and squinted at Inara.

"And just how much of the bread did you eat before he got a taste, if you let him have any at all." Inara turned to her with her mouth agape, feigning shock.

"I would never… alright, alright. I only took a few bites, after praising your skill first Cathy." The woman rolled her eyes and returned to stripping greens.

"I bet." said Cathy sarcastically. Inara swooped over and kissed her laughingly on the cheek. She wrapped her arms affectionately around the woman, careful of the belly. Catherine was 5 months pregnant and growing rounder with each passing day. She and Vincent had one other child, a son named Jacob who was in his 15th year, but this was her third pregnancy, twice before she'd carried a daughter to 5 months before miscarrying.

Catherine was human, but Vincent was not, and that made for a very difficult pregnancy under the best circumstances. To make matters worse was Catherine's age and the trauma on her body and heart from those previous losses. Inara had been the one to deliver the small lifeless doll from Cathy's unconscious body, and tried to banish the memory from manifesting every time she looked at her friend. These people were her family, bound by love if not blood, and she felt their pain as keenly as her own.

"Dear little sister, I will carry my obsession for your baking into eternity. Is there any other compliment greater than that?" Inara said as she dodged a haphazard shot of Cathy's hand whenshe scooped several peas from a bowl and fixed to aim it at Inara. All the women giggled happily as Inara took a stool with them and proceeded to work on her own bowl of peas.

"So when will you officially introduce your new man?" asked Taryn, one of the other women. Now it was Inara's turn to roll her eyes.

"Never if I have my way, I plan on sending him back the way he came as soon as he can manage it." She replied. The other women exchanged knowing glances, and Inara tried to ignore them.

Taryn and Cheska always acted like they knew more than anyone else. The funny part is they did. Their people, a race called the Aureeth, had empathic talents that made for the best gossip, as well as a gift of foresight. Although they couldn't predict specifics with any certainty you could often trust their instincts with a fair share of reliability. In this discussion Inara neither wanted to know if they were serious or joking, so she just changed the subject to one they would jump on right away.

"So how is everyone feeling?" All three of them began to speak at once, giving Inara a breakdown of all their pregnancy symptoms. Inara internally sighed at nature's great plan, making it so that Aureeth women often became pregnant and had their children within days of each other. She had her hands full with 3 of them in one household, but it left no room for boredom either. If anyone in the valley was feeling lonesome all they had to do was enter this kitchen and ask that question to be entertained until their ears bled. Thankfully the Aureeth tended to only breed every five or so years. Inara chastised herself for that thought. One of the reasons why their race would disappear from the earth soon was because of this slow birthrate.

She thought of the first time she'd seen their city of Neorongo, deep in the mountains of the African Congo. She remembered the children laughing as they played heffa in the streets, and the sounds of their native language being spoken by all those around. No one here spoke that language now, and Inara could not bring herself to teach them. It was another painful reminder she had to let go.

If there was one thing she'd learned in her long years was that the only way to survive was letting go of painful memories. It was a maxim that was easy enough to recite, but the heart was a deep gulf of emotion and there were dark places where comforting words could not be heard.

That ancient capital had now disappeared into the jungle, reclaimed by the ancient gods. There was nothing to be done; these were the last days of the Aureeth. Inara tried to dispel her mawkish thoughts and return to the conversation, but she'd missed a good portion of it and the other women had already begun clearing the counter to end their day.

She checked the small pocket watch that was kept in her skirt and realized more than 2 hours had passed. She sprang up and in a blur disappeared from the kitchen. The women that remained all smiled quietly to themselves as they said good night and dispersed to their homes and husbands.

Several of the small outbuildings that were beyond the main house under the cover of the trees had been built by the Aureeth when they'd first arrived in the valley as refugees. They weren't as well equipped as the larger building was with plumbing and other comforts, but for their occupants it was a much preferable lifestyle. Their homes had been arranged in a wide circle, and at its center was a clearing. Several times throughout the year, nearly every month, they would light a large bonfire to celebrate, sing and dance.

Inara reached the door to the guest chamber within moments of leaving the kitchen. Being very unaccustomed to having visitors, she opened the door without knocking. The man inside was in no state to show his displeasure, because he was fast asleep. She approached him quietly. He'd put on a shirt, whose billowing sleeves had been rolled up. On his lap was an open journal and in his hand was an ink pen, but the page was still blank. Apparently he'd nodded off before writing anything new.

Even though she was tempted to thumb thru the pages, Inara restrained herself. She gently lifted and closed the book, setting it on the side table along with his pen. She looked down at him for a few seconds, noting again how he'd turned his head, this time to look away from the window and hide the right side of his face.

Satisfied that he would sleep through the night, Inara withdrew and retired to her own room just down the hall. She spent several minutes sitting on the edge of the mattress, reviewing the events of the last few days and especially those of this evening before lying back and yielding to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

Over the next several days Erik took to his convalescence/confinement with an obliging attitude, though a day didn't pass when he wasn't calculating how best to get the upper hand on the situation. As soon as he was able he'd explored and catalogued his surroundings.

The massive four poster bed was immovable, as were the two night tables and the writing desk with an attached bench, which were secured to the floor by some type of resin. Even the candle holders around the room were glued in place and his attempts to dislodge them had been futile.

The chair the woman had used she'd taken with her and would only bring it back at feedings. It also became apparent that during their time in the room a sentry had been listening at the door, probably the lion headed man he'd met before. This was, for now, deterrent enough to stop him from accosting his host. Erik knew he wasn't yet strong enough to take on the beast.

His room was a corner apartment to what he assumed was a large manor. There were 2 windows, one facing the north and the other turned west. The result was that his room was constantly filled with light during daytime hours, which he found fairly irritating. Luckily the bed was equipped with drapes, so he could escape the pervasive glare. Erik still considered himself a creature of the dark, and felt unwelcome in the god rays.

From his vantage point most of his view consisted of trees whose tops crested only feet from the outer walls, but through the foliage he could make out the outline of a garden, some paths and buildings. There was also movement, but he could not make out the details of the figures walking along. He could also here them speaking, but most of the time their language was a strange lyrical sound or a harsh eclectic collection of sharp consonants and elongated vowels. He could not match it to any of the languages he'd ever heard, adding to his discomfort with this strange place.

But as one week wore on into two, his feelings on the situation began to turn from anxiousness to an uncomfortable acceptance. A feeling that he knew should have concerned him more, but there was something in the air of this place that gave him respite from the outside world. He felt like he was in a play and could pretend like he was a normal man, wounded and whisked away by fairies to be healed.

It was rather whimsical, especially for a former phantom, but all his life had been a play between reality and fantasy so the farce came naturally and it allowed him to sober his emotions.

This was of course added to, in no small part, by the effect his duplicitous host was having on him. Inara was unlike any woman he'd ever known, though that number was limited to only a handful. None of the many breeds of royalty he'd observed through the opera house curtains had quite the air of regality that she did. Neither could they compare to the sense of self-assuredness she exuded, a trait he'd rarely witnessed in even men.

Inara found Erik had a wealth of knowledge on a wide variety of subjects. Showing himself to be very well read, and it became a game of hers trying to stump him with questions. He'd shown himself quite up for the challenge, except when it came to history, but she conceded to herself that there was no way for him to match her on that category. He'd even been familiar with several of the periodicals she'd collected from across Europe, even as far away as Britain and the Americas.

"Where do you get these?" he asked her one morning.

"I employ a few people in neighboring villages to collect them and we meet several times throughout the year." She answered.

He seemed distracted for a moment, his mind wandering to some remote thought. It was one of the many things she put to her own memory for future consideration. He may have become comfortable enough to discuss literature with her, but he volunteered very little about his past, so she observed him carefully, cataloguing the kinds of questions he asked and his reactions to certain things.

"And you do this alone?" he inquired. Inara let out a hefty sigh, frustrated as always by men's assumption of a woman's limitations.

"I assure you I am quite capable." She commented, to which Erik gave an amused huff.

"What if you were attacked by a band of gypsies? Do you think they'd be gallant enough to leave you unspoiled? Do you really think you'd be able to defend yourself?" he said with a lascivious lilt.

"Would you be able to defend yourself?" she countered. Erik mimicked her huff in response, eyeing her critically. "The women of your world have been taught since birth that they are weak and unable to care for themselves, so they must be dependent on men, and it is the biggest threat to a man for a woman to even consider let alone behave otherwise. I am quite capable of defending myself and have no need to depend on a man for my safety." She finished hotly, revealing to Erik that he'd touched a nerve, but still he wouldn't buy it.

"Is that why you attend to me without your escort present?" he said, glancing over to the locked door.

"He's there because it makes him feel better, but if you'd like to test your luck feel free. I'd have to apologize though as you wouldn't survive." She said half teasingly.

"I think it better for me to decline that offer."

There were other topics he avoided. When he'd let slip that he had lived in Paris, Inara was excited to ask him the condition of the city and what life was like there. He'd quickly shut himself off, and stated he had only painful memories of the place and would not speak of it.

He did listen in earnest when one day, discussing the variety of peoples inhabiting Eurasia, Inara began to describe the clans of Romani that had migrated from the Far East and southern lands over the last few centuries. When she inquired about his interest, he only replied that he'd spent some time in the company of gypsies as a child and his attraction was only scholarly curiosity. She knew this to be a lie, but did not press the topic further.

Although not gregarious, she found him to be very amicable and excellent company. His demeanor was always equable and he was an excellent conversationalist being both well-spoken and lyrical. His sense of humor was reserved, and she'd found a particular pleasure in making him blush or snicker with her nearly crass or very medically accurate comments.

There was innocence in him that wasn't like that of a child, but more like freshness. She imagined that most of his life must have been spent with very little human interaction, although she couldn't imagine anyone living like a hermit in a city like Paris, especially someone like Erik who would certainly stand out.

Inara had witnessed on a few occasions when they had discussed society, politics and religion that he could become very impassioned on a subject. It wasn't threatening or violent, but it hinted to an excitable personality that bubbled just beneath the surface of his façade of control. Inara knew that to deduce a person's real essence, they had to be seen at their worst. When driven by fear or anger, an individual would act on pure instinct and reveal their true nature. It both intrigued and frightened her at what such a situation would reveal about him. Perhaps the ruse was better than the reality.

There were other subjects on which he had shut her down quickly. He didn't discuss music or theater, neither to comment on his preferences nor debate its quality. She'd made particular note, during his recovery, that his hands were not those of a working man, they were strong and lean, callused in the way a musician's hand would be. The pads of his fingers were smooth, and Inara could see the dexterity of his fingers when he sat writing in his journals or even in the way he handled objects.

One evening as she walked outside to deliver some tools to Dimitri in his workshop, she'd heard what could have only been his voice singing into the night from his open window. The otherworldly quality of the sound sent chills across her body and made her spirit tremble. It was melodic and hypnotizing, and she'd stopped to listen until the last note. There was a depth of feeling in his voice when she'd heard him, and although she couldn't make out the words the sense of sorrow and longing was easily felt in the melody.

Nearly two weeks had passed since he was injured, and he was much more healed than she had expected. He hadn't left his quarters as of yet, seeming very content to remain a recluse in the guest room for Inara's entertainment. He didn't even ask about leaving or being confined and it added to his strangeness. They hadn't discussed his departure since he first regained consciousness, and she found it increasingly difficult to discern his expectations on the matter.

At the beginning, he openly asked questions about Inara and the valley, but she refused to answer most and only acknowledged that she was mistress and keeper of the place. He would try subtly to gleam information from her, but she was careful not to let slip to much detail. There was no obvious indication about her condition, so she knew he could only speculate about her nature.

Vincent was the only other person he'd seen thus far so she allowed the mystery of his existence to persist. He hadn't given up trying to gather bits of information from the seemingly innocuous questions he asked, and she was mildly impressed by his ability to probe for knowledge. Far from being beguiled by his attentions, she told herself, Inara considered his persistence endearing.

Inara was sure that he was intelligent enough to discern that secrets were being kept and guarded like jewels. She knew he wouldn't be spending the rest of his life sequestered in these rooms and that some of the truth about herself and the valley people would have to be divulged. In time, he would be exposed to the others, in turn exposing them to him.

She could simply drug him and deliver him to the forest beyond the valley, but she knew that would not solve any problems. She could not simply trust that he would forget the whole affair. So, he remained a threat. Inara knew this in her conscious and reasoning mind, but in her heart, she felt compelled to show him that this place needed to remain secret. Whether by choice or not, fate had chosen him to protect that secret.

She should just kill him and be done with it. That was the simplest and safest solution, but somehow, she couldn't seriously entertain the notion. It was a constant conflict in her mind, but one truth she'd learned in her long life was to follow the guidance of her inner voice. Experience had taught her that the rational mind was lesser than the power and pull of universal forces that compelled us to make irrational choices. Something about this man bade her to allow him entry into their hidden world. She would let things unfold, watch and wait.

Regardless of whether someone believed in fate or destiny, Inara didn't question that there were certain patterns in the universe that went far beyond cause and effect. This man had come into her life for a reason, regardless of what she believed or didn't believe about him would not change the inevitable outcome of these events. She was determined nonetheless to be prepared for the good or bad of it, and prayed to whatever god or deity that might listen that it would resolve into joy and not pain.

Inara hadn't told him about her impending absence. She would only be gone 2 two days while she and Jacob traveled to meet Yuri and collect certain supplies and information about the world beyond the valley. She was feeling very hesitant about leaving while this stranger slept under her roof, even if he was kept behind a locked door.

She didn't believe he posed any physical threat to anyone, since he was unarmed and the Aureeth were far superior to humans in strength and speed. Even with all the time they'd spent together he was still mostly a mystery to her. In many ways he was as much at their mercy as they were at his. The possibility was there that he could cause serious damage, but if he were idiot enough to do so he would not survive long to beg forgiveness. She believed him smart enough not to take that chance.

On the eve of her departure Inara came late to his room, feeling apprehensive about leaving. When she opened the door, she nearly dropped her tray. He'd been standing just on the other side and she barely missed colliding with him. He smiled coyly down at her.

"You really should learn to knock, although I can hear your footsteps whenever you come up the stairs and down the hall." He said jokingly.

She said nothing to him as she crossed the room and set the tray on the side table. When she turned back he was still standing by the partially open door, looking down the hall. She tensed, expecting that he might bolt and try to make his escape, but instead he closed it slowly after having looked his fill. He walked over to where she was standing and gestured for her to sit in her usual chair. It had become his custom to prepare a place for her visits, but she didn't sit now. The quaintness of their time spent together was a sudden irritation to Inara.

"Take off your shirt." She commanded.

He didn't make a move and regarded her for several moments. She hadn't taken such an exacting tone with him since the start of his convalescence.

"I... I just need to check the bandage." She said much more gently, meeting his eyes for the first time. There was no mask there, either material or figuratively. In them she saw wistfulness, and that same volatile idee fixe that she'd previously noted. It made her take a deep breath and look away. "It should be ready to come off."

She moved away from him to gaze out of the window and give him some measure of privacy to do as she had instructed. Since that first day he'd worn the clothes he'd brought with him. Her examinations hadn't required anything more than for him to raise his shirt to expose the wound.

Inara dismissed a sudden urge to turn and watch him, and waited for his acknowledgment that he was ready, but none came. Her impatience running out she turned sharply to address him, and again was almost knocked back by finding him standing only inches away. He was indeed naked from the waist up. She never knew exactly what to expect from him, but her patience was too thin to spend too much time theorizing about it, so she chose to focus on her task.

Eric knew something was different. He'd spent weeks now examining this strange creature that almost didn't see the monster she kept imprisoned. He had to admit to himself, that as prisons go there was none better than this. But her conduct this evening was distressing. From the moment she'd come stampeding into his room and practically trampled him, her anxiety and discomfort from being in his presence, to the way she'd spoken to him it was obvious.

She had snapped at him to undress, and the tone had immediately reminded him of rougher times in his life. He had to bite back the instinct to reply with a disparaging comment. Instead he decided to allow the scene to play itself out and complied with her request, but he would do what he could to keep her off balance. Perhaps he could push her to reveal what was causing her distress, but Inara was not easily shaken. She'd recovered quickly and tended to his wound with a humane professional air.

She removed the pins that held the gauze in place and he lifted his arms to allow her to unravel the dressing. She lowered her head close to his chest so she could inspect him under the dimming light of day that filtered through the window. Although he'd become somewhat accustomed to her touch, it was still a novel sensation to feel her fingers run slowly over the pink, puckered flesh of his scars. He wondered if most people took such simple pleasure from a doctor's examination.

Erik resisted the urge to chuckle at such a thought, of course they didn't, and this was a particular symptom that resulted from his history. A few strands of her hair tickled his belly, causing his small nipples to crinkle and harden. He hoped she wouldn't notice, and he could if needed blame a chill or ignore it, but he didn't have a chance. When she was satisfied she immediately straightened, collected the shed bandages and moved toward the door. He thought she would leave, but she stopped a moment before reaching for the secret latch that kept the door locked at all times.

She turned back gradually and looked at him, still standing by the window where she'd left him. She studied him intensely, as if she was seeking to find the answer to some question that had been hounding her for some time. At length she stepped forward, softening the look on her face.

"Are you dangerous… to us?" He was taken aback by the question and a myriad of answers began roiling in his mind, but he answered with what his first thought was.

"No." he surprised himself, believing in his reasonable mind that it was a lie, but feeling in himself that he could never threaten her. She appeared to consider this for some time, staring even more deeply into the blue of his eyes. As the failing light from the windows lessened in the room her eyes seemed to glow golden in the half light. Blinking away whatever might have been her intended response, she smiled at him then reached for the door.

"I'm very tired and I have a big day tomorrow, I hope you don't mind eating alone. Good night Erik." he barely had time to reply good night before the door slid shut behind her and he remained standing exposed by the window for several moments. He collected his shirt, redressed himself and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He ate his meal distractedly whilst staring at her empty chair.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

Erik awoke to find someone moving around the room, near to the small writing desk situated close to the window. He nearly sprang from the bed to find it was not Inara, but the half man half lion he'd encountered previously. He felt instantly threatened and exposed. Bile rose in his throat as the feeling of intrusion ballooned.

"It appears no one in this place knows how to knock." He said mockingly as his discomfort escalated.

"This room is your holding cell, not a pleasure suite. Your rights to privacy are not ours to uphold as you are an intruder here." Vincent retorted, eyeing him over the space of a feet separating them. Erik simply gawked at him as he fought the urge to lunge for his neck.

"Don't you think it rather hypocritical to stare monsieur?" asked Vincent.

Erik didn't look away as he answered. "Not at all. From one freak to another, we should understand it is very natural to stare. Screaming would probably make me a hypocrite." His quip didn't fall lightly on deaf ears, and Vincent nearly snarled in response.

"I am no freak, but what more can I expect from an ignorant person." Erik hadn't had much experience exchanging insults with another person. Most of his gibes had been relayed via notes, so he was unprepared for the level of outrage that sprung forth. He leapt up, prepared to rant and battle this beast man. It seemed that Vincent would answer his challenge as a low growl escaped his lips; instead he took a deep breath and raised his hands in mock surrender.

"I think monsieur we are getting started on the wrong foot. Inara would not be pleased to return and find her guest torn to shreds, especially after having taken such care to rehabilitate you. We aren't accustomed to meeting new people here and most of us have negative memories of our encounters with regular men. I hope you understand." He finished on a note that was meant more to warn than to reassure. Erik's insolence was stemmed the moment Vincent referred to him as a regular man.

"I will endeavor from now on to knock before entering. I'm sure you expected much pleasanter company than I this morning. Its already 9:30 in the morning and everyone else has been awake several hours, I suggest you give up sleeping in so late and start rising with the sun. You might soon have other visitors." Erik gaped at him, confused at his words. Who and why would anyone visit him? Vincent moved forward, and Erik clenched his body ready for a confrontation but Vincent was unperturbed as he passed him and walked to the door. "Inara will be gone for another day at least. She asked me to bring your meals and a few other things she left for you." He gestured to a small pile of articles on top of the writing desk. "The plumbing in the bathroom needs to be looked at so our handyman will be by to work on it."

"If you give me the tools I can take care of it myself."

"Really?! I'll let Dimitri know. He is a very brilliantly skilled craftsman, inventor and designer. I'm sure he'll be pleased and have many questions to test your knowledge. " Vincent provoked.

"I'm sure I can educate him on a thing or two." Erik replied, trying to sound as condescending as possible. Vincent only chuckled and departed the room, allowing the door to fall behind him with a determined thud.

Erik wanted to rage and his instincts taught him to search the room for some weapon, but he thought of Inara and it was sufficient enough to slowly quench his indignation. As Vincent had been very careful to remind him, he was a prisoner and angering his warden would not be a good course of action, for now.

As his temper receded he remembered the small pile that had been left on the writing desk, and moved to inventory them. She had left him several new books and a new journal. There were also a couple of changes of clothes for him. Simple garments that were nothing like the flashy attire he'd brandished in Paris even though no one ever saw him. As he reached the bottom of the pile He gasped audibly, finding to his surprise another book.

It was music portfolio, pages of music for an entire orchestration for several pieces of composition. His fingers trembled as he ran them over the gold embossed cover. It was the symphonic works of Louis Spohr. He recognized the name as a German composer who'd been highly regarded during his lifetime for composing operas and various works for small ensembles. Erik tentatively opened the cover. He went wide eyed at what he saw and plopped down into the chair of the desk when he saw that the music had been hand written by the artist himself and even had notes along the bars and in the margin.

It was several hours before his gaze left the pages, disturbed by Vincent's knock as he brought lunch and took away the cold untouched remains from breakfast. He ate distractedly as he continued to peruse the orchestrations. In his mind the notes blossomed. He heard its sweetness and felt it reverberate through him. It wasn't until late into the night that he detached himself from the portfolio and allowed sleep to overtake him.

The next morning Erik was again awoken by the noise of someone in his quarters, but this time the sound emanated from the bathroom. He sat up quickly, straining his ears to listen and discern what was making such a commotion. It was the sound of metal on metal, sometimes clanging and then scraping. Now the racket of tile and fixtures being manipulated, then a voice issued from the ruckus booming forth in a strange tenor and being spoken in a language that seemed a mixture of old Celtic and the common English tongue.

Erik could not identify all the words and phrases, but from those he did comprehend it was clear the speaker was not pleased. He raised himself from the bed quietly, not wishing to alert his guest and changed out of his night shirt into the clothes Inara had left him. He pulled the white porcelain mask from his satchel, removed the silk wrapping and gazed down at the empty eye. Erik hadn't worn a mask since the soft leather one had been lost in the forest after the bears attack.

When Inara had asked him not to wear this one in her presence, he thought he'd die from the exposure. Surprisingly he'd become at ease without it. Yesterday's encounter with Vincent had been the first time in all these days that he'd regretted not having it at arm's length. Now the prospect of donning it again saddened him, but he would not suffer the horrified look of a stranger again in this life if he could help it. He secured the mask in place before entering the lavatory.

There upon the floor, kneeling among the disassembled parts of the exposed plumbing was a very swarthy dwarf. Was this the handy man Vincent had spoken of? Erik, being extremely observant as was his nature, noticed that this dwarf did not match the appearance expected to be seen in someone of small stature. It was common knowledge that those born with this deformity suffered from appendages greatly disproportionate to their size.

Often their arms were so short that it impeded their reach and range of motion. In most the musculature was so over developed that they bulged and were its own impediment to functionality. But none of these descriptions matched the creature presented before him. His arms and legs were perfectly matched for his size. He wore simple trousers and a shirt whose sleeves had been rolled up so as not to impede his work and exposing his arms up to the bicep. Their definition bespoke of a well-practiced strength and his movements were fluid. His form resembled more than anything the build of a strong man, tightly coiled and sculpted. If one saw him without a frame of reference to infer his height, he would be easily considered normal.

The only real give away was the size of his hands and feet, which would have been large for even an average man. He handled each tool that passed through his fingers with dexterity and Erik was impressed by the speed with which he applied himself.

"So, Boy, you're finally awake." said Dimitri. Erik was startled when he was addressed and did not respond. "The beast man tells me you're capable of assisting me, but I'll be the judge of that. Come here and I'll find out if your worth anything." Without looking up the small man gestured for Erik to approach and join him on the floor. Although Erik was unaccustomed to taking orders from anyone, curiosity led him to do as told and he crouched down near Dimitri but just outside the ring of debris. Barely hesitating, the small man scooped up a pile of pipes, valves, washers, screws and other bits and tossed them in front of Erik.

"Fix that." He commanded. Erik knew he was being challenged, but far from being intimidated he felt intrigued. Taking a minute to catalogue the objects set before him he set to work. He spoke only to request a necessary tool or piece that had been omitted.

Although Dimitri never looked directly at him it was obvious that his every move was being marked. When he was done there was no need to announce it, as the small man immediately snatched up the finished work and combined it with his own. He then took the whole thing and installed it. He reached for a valve that controlled the flow of water and slowly turned it on. He moaned agreeably as the gentle rush of liquid flowing was heard and the plumbing stood firm. He tested the faucets and sighed contentedly as they functioned perfectly. All this was done while his back remained turned to Erik, but there was no mistaking the self-gratified air he'd adopted.

"Well there, it looks like you have some value. We've more work to do boy. Go and eat your breakfast quickly while I remove that damned lock from the… Sweet Jesus! Why on this hot earth do you wear that thing?" responded the small man to the sight of the stark white mask. Erik stood firm, brandishing the ghostly face that hid his torn flesh. Dimitri recovered himself quickly and mumbled as he ambled past Erik into the bedroom.

"No matter, if it makes you happy wear whatever you like. Go and hurry up, I've not got all day." Dimitri reached the door and dropped his bag of tools as he went to work on the knob, releasing and removing the contraption that kept it secure.

Erik followed and sat on the edge of his bed. He nibbled absently at the fool left on the side table while he watched the small man. After only a few minutes the remains of the device were dumped into the tool bag and Dimitri exited the room without looking back, calling for Erik to follow.

"We might as well take care of all the water works up here. Our resident deity has been complaining for decades how it all needs attention. She can't get it through her head that it's been well beyond the modern standard for a century. What does she expect living out here in the wilderness? It's a miracle we can manage indoor plumbing and hot water as it is." Dimitri continued to prattle on, but Erik was flummoxed for a moment by what had been said. Deity, decades, century; at face value it was to fantastical to accept, especially about a girl who looked younger than him and scarcely older than… He went cold before the name could manifest itself in his thoughts.

Erik followed the small man into the hall. He searched every corner for signs of another presence out of habit, but none could be found. The entered the neighboring room which was obviously unoccupied and performed the same service. They then moved on to the next. From the moment Dimitri opened the door he knew that this room had an occupant. The sweet smell of perfume met his nostrils as they entered and he knew right away whose quarters they were. It was the same flowery scent Inara wore every time he'd met her. Without realizing it he took a deep audible breath. Dimitri paused and glanced up at him for a moment with on raised eyebrow. Erik felt like he'd been caught in some lewd act. He didn't acknowledge the small man and continued to the adjoining restroom. He held the door open and made of flourishing motion for Dimitri to enter. He offered the small man a deep bow as he passed into the lavatory. Unobserved for a moment he glanced briefly around the chamber, taking in all its accoutrements.

It was considerably larger than his, but the layout was the same. A large 4 poster bed dominated the scene, and beside it was a small side table with a demure candelabrum. Across the room nearest to the window there was a small writing table. Then there were the additional furnishings. A round tea table with 3 delicately upholstered chairs sat nearest to the brazier of the dark fireplace. The one other exception was a doorway that led to what seemed to be a small sitting room. From where he stood Erik could make out a small day bed set against the far wall and underneath a tall window. He was craning his neck trying to look deeper into the space when Dimitri's voice issued from the bathroom.

"If you've finished boy, come here and get to work. "Erik joined him. He refrained from perusing the bathroom as they set to their task. He could tell anyway that it was very much like his in size and amenity apart from the feminine articles atop the counters and hung around. Erik repressed the embarrassment he felt and committed himself to work with an air of excessive professionalism for the remainder of their time in Inara's suite.

When they emerged, and commenced work on the rooms across the hall, Vincent appeared with lunch trays for them. Dimitri continued his rhetoric about the facilities, commenting often how he'd surpassed even the most modern of advanced technologies available to make the manor more comfortable and please its demanding mistress. Erik collected every word, allowing the great mystery to swell in his mind. When they were done Dimitri led them on in their labor.

"So what did you do back in the real world boy?" asked Dimitri. Erik tried to think quickly on the best way to answer.

"A bit of this and that, I suppose you could say I was a kind of performer." He said

"And what kind is that?"

"The unsuccessful kind." Erik teased, but his humor was lost on the dwarfish man.

"Humph, a worthless profession anyway, but it'll make you a popular fellow around here. We're often wont for entertainment."

Erik instantly regretted his admission, tensing at the thought of being asked to perform. It was his intent to never again take center stage in any capacity. That part of him was dead and he would never allow it to be revived, especially to this audience.

"I no longer made a spectacle of myself." He replied dryly. Dimitri continued, not acknowledging Erik's discomfort.

"Where did you learn to be so handy then?" he asked.

"I am largely self-taught." Erik replied.

"Well it makes you good for something; otherwise we'd have tossed you out on your arse long ago." said the small man. It was taking time, but Erik was becoming accustomed to Dimitri's harsh manor. He wondered if he treated everyone with equal disdain and indirect insults. Except Inara, whom he was sure severed to be his equal for quick retorts and jabs. Erik was sure she was more than capable of responding in kind.

It heartened him to consider it. For the first time in his life he was being treated like he was a normal man. He would have to discipline himself to respond appropriately. But the phantom still lurked within, so he often had to restrain his proclivity to respond defensively or even violently. It was the only thing that still frightened him. If he was to falter and the monster emerge what kind of havoc would it wreak.

The sun had fallen low in the sky when Dimitri declared the work day ended.

"Come boy, I think we've earned a hearty meal. I believe Catherine's made a marvelous venison stew. Her one saving grace is her cooking, how else can Vincent stomach marriage to a human." Erik would've been aghast at those comments, but when they reached the ground floor the sound of nearly a dozen voices emanating from a partially open set of double door stopped him cold. Dimitri was about to pass through when he noticed Erik did not pursue, and saw the look of trepidation evident on the unmasked side of his face.

"Keep on boy, no one here threatens you. It is you who are the intruder. You wouldn't still have a heartbeat if Inara believed you a danger to us. Move along." Dimitri roughly grabbed Erik's wrist and pulled him along into the dining hall. A long table was situated to his right, and to his left were 3 smaller round tables. Erik struggles to contain his anxiety as he was confronted with the 15 or so people seated.

Nearest to the doors were Vincent, a heavily pregnant human woman, and a young man perhaps 16 years of age. Across from them, to Erik's astonishment were 3 more cat faced individuals. Two were obviously female since they lacked the full mane that Vincent sported, and the last was a younger version of Vincent. With them sat a human man and a small prepubescent boy stuffing his cheeks with what looked to be roast chicken.

Dimitri offhandedly greeted them as he moved down the table. Next were a smaller group comprised of one darkly tanned man and 3 very odd-looking women. They were tall, thin and long limbed. Their most striking feature was the near whiteness of their long hair, accentuated by skin so pale it was luminescent. As Erik looked on them, he had the unnerving sensation like his mind was being wiped clean. He would have continued to stare dumbly if Dimitri hadn't suddenly yanked on his wrist painfully, awakening him from the pending stupor.

"That'll only happen the first few times you see them, then the effect wears off." Finally, they reached the end of the table. Dimitri dropped Erik to sit next to him amid a small group of dwarfish people. Like the small man, they were unlike any he had seen before. No one really acknowledged his presence. They continued to talk amongst themselves, allowing only furtive glances to fly his way periodically.

Erik didn't know if he was being snubbed or being given space to adjust to the new surroundings. He'd been seated before a full plate and goblet of wine as had Dimitri. Had it been set there for him specifically? Looking up and down the table to see the same he could only deduce that it had. Causally he started to eat his meal. It was the same delicious fare he'd been provided in his room. When the meal was done the diners began to disperse. Erik followed suit, depositing his dirty dished in a basin as the others did. When he looked up he was dismayed to find Dimitri had disappeared, but luckily Vincent was there.

"I hope he wasn't too hard on you." said the beast man.

"Not at all, it was a rather stimulating and informative day." replied Erik.

"Good. I expect you don't need an escort back to you room so I'll say goodnight here. See you tomorrow." Vincent gave Erik a small smile and withdrew. For a moment Erik stood bewildered in the doorway of the dining hall watching everyone retreat out the front doors or down a side hall. It was perhaps the strangest day of his very strange life. Who were these people? Had he somehow stepped through some portal into another realm? And after being held captive for over two weeks he was standing only paces away from freedom, but stranger still he didn't find it very appealing. Something had changed, beyond the peculiar circumstances he'd fallen into. Musing on all that had occurred he made his way up the stairs, heading to his room. He'd only just reached the second-floor landing and turned the corner when he almost collided with a rapidly approaching figure. Inara squealed in surprise as she bounced back, a very uncharacteristic reaction for her.

"What are you doing here?" she huffed out. Erik was suddenly tickled to have caught her so off guard.

"Well there was this bear that didn't take to kindly at my presence and…" Inara scoffed, giving him a look of pure venom.

"You know what I mean." She spat. Erik didn't hide the half smile that filtered onto his face.

"A very kindly dwarf has employed me as his assistant. He was nice enough to remove the lock on my door." He replied courteously, bordering on condescension.

"Dwarf eh?" Inara rolled her eyes, showing obvious frustration with the situation. "Well, I guess that's done." She said.

"Dinner is over, I was just retiring to my room." He commented. Inara nodded and moved aside to allow him to pass. He was surprised when she fell in step next to him.

"Assistant, hmm. I'm glad you've found some useful employment. I'm sure only having me for company was becoming tiresome."

"Certainly not, I've missed you these last two days." He wasn't as ease giving this disclosure, but it was appropriate for a guest to tell his hostess. They spoke no further until they reached his door. "Good night madam, I hope you sleep peacefully."

"Thank you. Good night Erik." He watched as she reached her own door. Before entering she turned to him one last time. "Since you're well enough to be out and about, I expect you to come down to breakfast like everyone else. We are usually all gathered by 8 in the morning." He nodded and they both retreated into their quarters.

Inara stood for several minutes just inside her door, conflicted on what should be her next course of action. Upon returning she'd convinced herself of the right thing to do, but now after being face to face with him again, she floundered. Mindlessly she undressed and got ready for bed, but just before settling down she retrieved the newspaper from her bag that she'd acquired. She read the headline and article again for perhaps the hundredth time. The French had always had a penchant for fanfare and often embellishing the truth, sometimes making it hard to distinguish the lie. She hoped for all their sakes that was the case now.

As she rested her head on her pillows her final thought dwelled on the man who slept down the hall, and she hoped that her dreams would not foreshadow the future. In them and over the past night, she'd been chased by a cloaked and masked phantom.


End file.
